


Knave of Swords

by MsBarrows



Series: Arren & Co. [11]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Anal, Anal Plug, Blindfolds, Deepthroating, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Kink Meme, M/M, Oral, Self Prompt, Sex Magic, Size Kink, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, k!meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:03:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsBarrows/pseuds/MsBarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen and Zevran's relationship continues to develop, as more concrete problems from Zevran's past intrude. More also-ran non-Warden characters put in an appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Friendly Meal

**Author's Note:**

> Owen and Zevran strolled through the Denerim market, admiring the goods at a few of the stalls, but not buying.

Owen and Zevran strolled through the Denerim market, admiring the goods at a few of the stalls, but not buying.

They'd been in Denerim for a week now, and the Landsmeet that Arl Eamon was constantly talking about seemed no closer to actually beginning. Most of that time they'd spent in hard work, doing chantry-board jobs to restock their diminishing funds. Large areas of Denerim were now considerably safer to travel through, Alistair's group having cut a considerable swathe through the bandit gangs that had become so used to a lackadaisical guard presence that they'd begun ruling the alleys and byways by day, not just by night. Arren's group had discovered and cleaned out an entire coven of blood mages hidden in an underground warren, disturbingly close to the finer residences and estates where much of the nobility dwelt when in the city. While they'd found no evidence to prove it, Arren and Morrigan were both of the belief that the location of the warren was no accident, that the blood mages had been hoping to influence the minds of those who ruled the city and Ferelden.

Yesterday evening Arren and Alistair had been closeted with Arl Eamon in close conversation, and today only one group had gone out, consisting of Arren, Alistair, Morrigan, Mouse, and Oghren, with everyone else told to take the day off.

"What about that woman over there?" Owen asked, a note of amused interest in his voice.

Zevran barely glanced at her, and smiled. "The largest udders I have seen outside a cow-barn, and fine large hips, to cradle a man in comfort."

Owen snorted. "She's a fat old hag!"

Zevran grinned, shrugged. "And if she was a fat, old hag that I had to seduce to get close enough to kill, I would look at her breasts and hips, and do what must be done."

Owen shook his head. "I still find it hard to believe that you can find something to admire about _anyone_."

"Oh, come, it is not that hard. Try it yourself; look, I will give you an easy one. That man over there, shifting crates. Look at him and tell me one thing you find attractive about him."

Owen gave Zevran a look, then gazed at the labourer for a moment. "Well... he does have a very nice ass," he admitted reluctantly after a moment.

"And a lovely muscular torso, and arms as large as most mens' thighs, hidden away under that _hideous_ garment," Zevran pointed out.

"Mmm, maybe. All right, that man sitting on the crate, eating the apple. The scrawny one that looks like a weasel."

"His hands," Zevran promptly answered in a low murmur. "Look at how long and fine his fingers are, how dextrous as he's peeling the apple, how delicately he handles the little knife, imagine how they'd feel touching your most intimate parts..."

Owen's answering snort sounded half-strangled. "You're incorrigible."

"Of course," Zevran answered complacently.

Owen glanced up and noticed they were outside of a tavern that they'd cleared unwanted mercenaries out of the day before. "Let's stop for dinner," he said, nodding his head toward the chewed-up looking sign.

"At the Gnawed Noble? A little beyond our normal price range," Zevran pointed out. "But if you wish to spoil me with fine food and drink, I shall not complain."

Owen snorted again. "You're paying for your own meal," he told the assassin severely as he led the way indoors.

Owen's fine clothing was enough to gain them a reasonably good table, with a decent view of the room. Despite his words to Zevran, he ordered a good meal for both of them, before returning to their little game.

"The server who just took our order," he asked.

"Oh come, she is a vision. Give me a challenge, or should I give you one again? Say, the bartender."

"The bartender?" Owen craned his head for a moment. "I fail to see anything attractive about the man."

Zevran smiled and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You're not trying. He has a lovely voice. A little nasal perhaps, but otherwise pleasant. And rather nice hair, though he could stand to shave more thoroughly. And look at that wide neck, those broad shoulders – he's built like a bull! Perhaps below as well as above."

"A _fat_ bull. Look at the belly on him."

Zevran shrugged and grinned toothily. "Come, your turn again. Try for real this time. The woman sitting at the table over to your right."

Owen glanced her way, frowned in thought. "Well... she has very nice hair. And a lovely neck."

Zevran nodded. "Like a very swan, and she knows it, hence the beautifully piled-up hair, to better display her neck. And look how she moves – she is a warrior-maid, or I much miss my guess."

Owen smiled, glanced around. "All right – the older man who just walked in the door and is talking to the proprietor."

Zevran glanced that way, and his face lit up with a broad smile. "Ah! A very fine kisser, and his brother has a most excellent wine cellar," he exclaimed, and rose to his feet, lifting one hand and calling out to catch the man's attention. "Bann Teagan!"

The Bann turned, and an equally pleased smile lit his face. He hurried over to their table. "Zevran! I didn't expect to see you here," he said.

The assassin grinned. "A little beyond my usual purse here in Ferelden, I must admit. Come, join my friend and I for a meal, unless you have other commitments...?"

The Bann smiled. "None at the moment. I will most happily join the pair of you, if I'm not intruding?"

"Not at all," Owen said, giving the Bann an evaluative look. He'd recognized the name, of course – Arl Eamon's younger brother. And Zevran knew how well the man kissed? There was a story there, obviously, one he'd have to pry out of the elf later.

Zevran hurriedly performed introductions as the Bann took a seat. "Bann Teagan, this is Owen Amell, he joined Arren's group just after I last saw you. Owen, I'm sure you have heard of Bann Teagan Guerrin, our host's younger brother?"

"Ah, so you _are_ staying at Eamon's estate then? I'd hoped such would be the case," Teagan said, sounding pleased.

"Will you be joining us there as well?" Zevran asked interestedly.

"No, I have my own townhouse. Not as fine a place as one of the great estates, like Eamon's is, but then I'm only a bann, not an arl. And bann of a very minor, out-of-the-way place at that," Teagan said with an easy smile. "But I am a frequent visitor to Eamon's estate when we're both in town, and will doubtless see you there."

Zevran nodded. It was a quite enjoyable meal, and the quick, efficient service they got showed that their association with Bann Teagan had raised their stock considerably in the eyes of the proprietress. They avoided talking about anything important – the tavern was too public a venue – but both Zevran and the bann were good conversationalists, and Owen let them carry the bulk of the talk, just sitting back and enjoying his meal, and watching the elf blossom under the bann's interested attention. He'd known the elf could be talkative when in the right mood and with those he trusted, but this was the first time he'd seen him be anything but watchful and quiet – or aggressively flirtatious – with anyone outside of Arren's group. He found himself wondering at the level of friendship between the two men, especially given how widely disparate their background were.

A couple of times during the meal their talk was interrupted when other nobles stopped at the table to greet the bann. Including the woman whose swan-like neck they'd been admiring earlier.

"Bann Alfstanna, a pleasure to see you again," Teagan said as he rose to his feet and bowed, smiling pleasantly at the woman.

"Bann Teagan," she said, dipping her head, and glancing at his dinner companions briefly. "I wonder if you might have time – tomorrow, of course, not now – to discuss with me the upcoming Landsmeet?"

"Of course. I'll send you a messenger tomorrow morning, to let you know what times I'm likely to be available. You're at your townhouse?"

"Yes. And thank you," she said, before turning and walking away.

"A fine figure of a woman," Zevran observed.

"What? Oh, yes, quite nice," Teagan agreed. "Quite a talented warrior, as well – she'd planned to make a living for herself in the army, before she ended up inheriting the bann. I think she preferred the military life, but she does a good job as bann. Now, shall we have a final drink to end the meal? Antivan brandy perhaps?" Teagan asked, eyes twinkling.

Zevran grinned widely. "Of course."

The bann signalled a server, and ordered a round of brandy for the table. Owen sipped cautiously at his while he watched the assassin and nobleman go through a near-identical routine of swirling, examining and sniffing before finally sipping their own.

"Does that really make it taste any better?" he asked Zevran, amused.

Zevran grinned widely. "That is arguable. Still, it is what one _does_ when drinking a particularly fine brandy."

Bann Teagan smiled in equal amusement. "Yes. More part of the accepted etiquette of drinking it, I suppose, like which hand to hold your knife in when cutting your meat. It makes little difference to your stomach, but can make a great difference in how you're perceived."

"At least by those who consider certain manners more important than the man behind them," Owen observed dryly.

"Mmm, no, it is not just a failing of nobility," Zevran said. "If I was to pretend to be a dockworker in Antiva – something I have done, and quite successfully I might add – I would be caught out if I ate my shellfish by slurping them whole from the shell as the inhabitants of the inner city do, instead of the knife-and-thumb method the dockworkers prefer."

"Knife and thumb?" Teagan asked curiously.

"You hold the shellfish in your left hand, and slide the blade of the knife under the flesh of it with your right, pinning it down against the blade with your thumb. Then you convey it to your mouth on the blade, holding the shell underneath to catch any drips. Swallow it whole, then drink the liquid in the shell to wash it down. And you must be sure to keep the sharp edge of the knife turned out, away from you, having it turned towards yourself is considered bad luck," he said, and grinned. "If nothing else, you might cut yourself."

Owen snorted and smiled. "As good a reason for considering it bad luck as any."

Bann Teagan nodded in agreement. "Well, if you don't mind, I'll accompany the two of you back to my brother's estate. I should let him know I've arrived, if nothing else, and I wouldn't mind a chance to greet Arren and Alistair, if they're available."

"They might be," Zevran said guardedly. "They went out on some mission earlier today, and were not yet back when we left the estate. But, come, we shall go and see."

Bann Teagan insisted on paying for the meal, and as he had considerably deeper pockets than either of they, Zevran and Owen acquiesced with minimal argument.


	2. A Friendly Meal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were about halfway back to the Arl's estate, following the edge of the darkened, empty marketplace, when a hooded figure stepped out of an alleyway, blocking their path. All three of them were reaching for weapons before the figure raised his empty hands, palms toward them. "Bann Teagan," the man said, quietly. "You know me."

They were about halfway back to the Arl's estate, following the edge of the darkened, empty marketplace, when a hooded figure stepped out of an alleyway, blocking their path. All three of them were reaching for weapons before the figure raised his empty hands, palms toward them. "Bann Teagan," the man said, quietly. "You know me."

"Fer...!" Bann Teagan exclaimed, breaking off in mid-word as the hooded figure shook its head. "Maker, man, you were reported dead, after the debacle at Ostagar!"

A low laugh. "I damn near was. Luckily for me, the Chasind aren't nearly as barbaric as people paint them; a tribe of them found me and nursed me back to health. We need to speak, friend."

Teagan snorted. "That we do. And not in public. My brother's estate is near..."

"And under Teryn Loghain's watchful eye," Zevran pointed out as he re-sheathed his weapons, it being obvious the Bann didn't consider this man any danger.

"True. My townhouse, perhaps? It's a bit of a walk..."

"And equally likely to be under the Teryn's eye, from what I've heard about your challenge to him when he declared himself regent," the man pointed out.

"As long as there are no more then two, perhaps three watchers, I believe I can make sure your guests are able to enter unseen," Zevran suggested to Teagan.

"Guests?" Bann Teagan asked, while the man gave a low laugh.

"I have a companion, whom your friend has obviously spotted," the man said, nodding toward the alleyway he'd emerged from. "All right. I know where your townhouse is; it will take some little time for the two of us to reach there; better we travel separately than walk openly with you."

"That is good, it will also take me some little time to locate and temporarily disable the guards. Hide nearby, I shall find you when it is safe for you to approach," Zevran assured the man.

The man turned and looked questioningly at Bann Teagan. Teagan nodded. "If Zevran says he can do it, he can. He is – was – an Antivan Crow. A good one."

"One of the best," Zevran said, with a broad smile.

"Ahhhh," the man breathed, softly, and nodded his head toward Zevran. "I am familiar with such. I will take you at your word, then," he said, and disappeared back into the alley.

Teagan turned, and led the way away from the marketplace and off through the city toward where his townhouse was. Once they were close enough for him to point out the correct building, Zevran separated from him and Owen, vanishing into the shadows. He slowly circled the area, looking at Bann Teagan's house and judging where in the surrounding area watching eyes might usefully be placed, then began cautiously checking. In the end, he only found two people, one watching the front, and one the back. The one in back was half-asleep at his post as it was; a little dart, with no more bite to it than an insect, easily sent him the rest of the way. Zevran carefully plucked it from his skin before heading off to find the pair and guide them to safety.

He frowned as he saw the man's companion for the first time; moving as if injured, favouring one leg and cradling one arm, half-supported by the bigger man. Zevran made sure to make a little noise before stepping out of the shadows to greet the pair.

"Turn left down the next alley," he advised them. "And then the third right will bring you to the laneway running in back of Teagan's townhouse. His garden gate and back door will be open, and safe. I will leave a sign on the ground before the right gate so you do not mistake it. I will go see to that, now."

"All right. Thank you," the man called back softly.

Zevran ghosted back through the darkness to the townhouse, unlocking and oiling the gate, scuffing a quick mark in the muddy dirt of the laneway, then slipped through the garden and did the same for the back door. He hid in the shadows, keeping his eyes and ears open, until he saw the pair ease through the gate and creep through the garden to the house, disappearing inside. He went back and relocked the garden gate before following them indoors himself.

The pair were in a sitting room with Teagan and Owen, having just drawn off their hooded cloaks when he entered. The pair had dark brown hair, shaggy on the taller figure and hacked messily short on the slighter one. Matching hazel eyes in tanned faces, the tan bringing out the paleness of the scar that marred one side of the smaller figure's face from temple to chin, narrowly missing the eye and pulling the outer corner of the mouth awry.

Zevran nodded in greeting to the pair, then turned to Owen. "I believe the lady may need your talents, my friend," he said.

"Lady...!" Teagan exclaimed, then stared in shock at the slighter figure. "Gemma! Forgive me, I didn't recognize you... I thought you a boy..."

She gave a crooked smile. "I hardly resemble the fine young lady you danced with at Highever last winter," she said, an edge of bitterness in her voice, then looked questioningly at Owen as he rose to his feet, eyes widening slightly as she took in how unnaturally tall he was. "You are a doctor?" she asked nervously.

"A mage, and a healer," Owen corrected. "I can see there is something wrong with your leg and arm – what else?"

She grimaced. "Ribs. The leg is an old injury, I doubt anything can be done for it now, but the arm and ribs are recent. Walked all the way from Highever in disguise as a boy without problems, and then ran afoul of some fat bastard in a cheap inn down near the docks who thought I looked like easy meat. Broke my arm, before I cut his fat throat for him. And then had to run and abandon what things I had, since I didn't dare get involved with the guards in any way. My disguise wouldn't have lasted any longer than it took for them to strip my armour off and notice I had girly bits instead of dangly bits."

"I suppose I should make introductions," Teagan interjected. "Fergus Cousland, Gemma Cousland, may I make known to you Zevran Arainai and Owen Amell, companions of the Grey Wardens."

"Ahhhh, the missing heirs of Highever," Zevran said, enlightened, and cut the two of them a rather pretty bow, which drew a sardonic smile from Fergus and an amused one from Gemma.

"Charmed," she said, an ironic edge in her voice, then looked to Owen again. "Anything you can do about my injuries will be very much appreciated, ser."

"Of course. You will need to strip for me to attend them – would you prefer to withdraw somewhere more private, or...?"

"I will trust the gentlemen to look away," she said gravely. "I would rather not miss out on the conversation."

Owen nodded, and he and Gemma withdrew to one corner of the room, Owen standing between her and the others, while the other three men took seats facing away.

"So how did you come to be here, and how did you and Gemma manage to reunite?" Teagan asked curiously.

"Much as Gemma did, I walked here, after I'd healed enough. The Chasind were generous enough to provide me with what rations they could spare. They have little enough of their own at the best of times, living off the land as they do, and with the darkspawn overrunning their territory are even worse off than usual right now. It humbles me how willing they were to care for me, a complete stranger. By the time I'd reached Denerim I already knew that everyone in my family was believed dead, and that Howe had claimed our lands," he continued grimly, jaw setting. "I have only two goals left in life. And only one that I care about; seeing Howe dead for what he did to us and our people. And then reclaiming our lands."

Gemma spoke up. "I, too, came here to find and kill Howe. After what he did to us at Highever..." her voice broke for a moment.

"I was there. I saw the bodies. Apart from Fergus, everyone I loved died that night, family and servants both. I was left for dead after they..." she broke off, fell silent for a long moment before finally resuming, voice raw with emotion. "I would have died, but they didn't know about the secret tunnel out of the pantry. When they... they left the room... I managed to open it, crawl within, drag myself through the tunnel and out. One of the villagers found me as they fled the carnage, and carried me to safety. Our people kept me hidden for months afterwards, while I recovered from my injuries. They did what they could for me, then once I was well enough, helped me to disguise myself so I could come to Denerim. We all thought I was our only chance at justice, at seeing Howe and his people removed from Highever."

Fergus took up the tale. "I was scouting out our properties here in Denerim, hoping to find one that Howe and his men had missed, where I might be able to get proper arms and armour, or at least some of our valuables to sell for same, when I found Gemma doing the same. That was yesterday evening."

"I'm going to need something to use for bandages to strap these ribs," Owen interrupted. "Bone heals better if it's allowed to heal naturally, and my energy is better spent on healing some of the other damage. I'll also need some smooth sticks to help in setting her arm."

It took some little time to round up suitable items. While Zevran was sent off to plunder the linen closet for old sheets to tear into strips for bandaging, and Fergus to sort through the woodpile in the kitchen for suitable lengths of wood, Teagan vanished upstairs to his rooms, returning with clean clothing for Gemma to wear once Owen was done with her; he only had things of his own there, bringing back a plain cotton shirt and drawstring breeches which would hang rather loosely on her smaller frame, but at least that meant it would fit on easily over her bandaging.

Owen ended up needing help with keeping her supported during the bandaging, which Fergus supplied. She only cried out once in pain during the process, though she was pale as a sheet by the time it was finished.

"I'll want to check on you daily while those are healing," Owen told her. "And you should rest in bed for a couple of days, at minimum – there was some damage inside, which I've done what I can about for now, and will heal further once I have more energy."

Gemma nodded. Between them Owen and Fergus helped her upstairs, and installed her in one of Teagan's spare bedrooms. The men carried in chairs from elsewhere in the house to settle down and continue their conversation there.

"What are your plans now?" Teagan asked Fergus.

"I've heard that your brother is at the centre of the resistance to Teryn Loghain and Arl Howe, and is organizing a Landsmeet. It may be useful for myself – and Gemma too, if she is up to it – to appear there and challenge Howe's claim to our Terynir. Gemma's evidence in particular about the atrocities Howe perpetrated in Highever may help sway adherents away from them. And if the Landsmeet supports me, and allows me to reclaim my family seat, that weakens Howe, and therefor weakens Loghain's support."

Teagan nodded. "An excellent plan. And most effective if Loghain and Rendon have no warning of it. If we can continue to keep your presence secret until the Landsmeet..."

Gemma nodded in agreement. "Do you have servants here whom we have to worry about?" she asked worriedly.

Teagan shook his head. "Just one, my housekeeper, and you could sooner enter the Golden City on foot than pry a secret from her short of outright torture," he said, and smiled thinly. "Apart from the few years when I was away in the Free Marches, she has been with me her entire life – her mother was my nurse as a child. I would not hesitate to trust her with my life."

Fergus nodded. "All right then. I will trust you to make our presence known to your brother, and plan out with him how best to use us. For now we will have to depend on your hospitality."

Bann Teagan smiled pleasantly at the pair. "It is no burden. Whatever help I can be to you, you can depend on me to perform."

He turned and looked at Zevran and Owen. "As late as it is, would you prefer to stay here the remainder of the night, rather than returning to my brother's estate?"

Owen nodded his head. "It would be best if we stay, I think. It will allow me to do some further healing on the lady before we leave in the morning."

"Very well, let me offer you all beds for the night. Fergus, I suppose you'd prefer the room next to Gemma? Do you and Owen mind sharing a room, Zevran?"

"Not in the least," Zevran assured him with a charming smile.


	3. A Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They arrived back at the Arl's estate the next morning to find it in turmoil, the Arl standing with a petite blond woman in armour at his side, looking concerned, while most of the companions stood around arguing.

They arrived back at the Arl's estate the next morning to find it in turmoil, the Arl standing with a petite blond woman in armour at his side, looking concerned, while most of the companions stood around arguing.

"What's happened?" Owen asked, loudly.

Morrigan answered, her voice tense and brittle. "The Grey Wardens have been captured by Teryn Loghain's forces. And it is all _this foolish woman's_ fault," she hissed, glaring daggers at the blond, who drew herself up with an offended look on her face.

Zevran intervened. "I beg pardon, I do not believe we have been introduced," he said politely to the woman. "I am Zevran Aranai, late of the Antivan Crows. And you are...?"

The woman turned a sharply evaluative gaze on him, then relaxed just slightly. "Queen Anora Mac Tir Theirin," she said, voice cool and precise.

"Ah, beg pardon," Zevran said, and gave her an elegant bow, equally precise in nature. His little bit of theatre having calmed things down somewhat, he looked enquiringly at Morrigan and Oghren. "Is this connected to the errand you went with the wardens on yesterday?" he asked.

"Sure is," Oghren growled. "We went to that bastard Howe's estate to rescue Queenie here. And a right foul job it was, too. Ended up fighting every blasted guard in the estate..."

"I _told_ you not to open that door," Morrigan said sharply.

"Yeah, yeah. Every guard, a bunch of those damned dogs, plus an entire dungeon full of more guards, a random selection of mages, and some really nasty brutes that Alistair said were torturers," Oghren said, then shook his head, and produced a flask. "And I thought _Bhelen_ was a sick puppy... raw amateur, compared to what you humans get up to," he sneered, and knocked back a healthy swallow of his drink. "Eventually found that Howe fellow, had a nasty little fight, which ended with Arren cutting him damned near in half with that big blade of his. Know what the bastard's final words were? 'I deserved better.' Hah! After seeing what he'd been getting up to under that estate of his, all I can say is he died way too easy. Humans!" he snorted in disgust, and chug-a-lugged the rest of his flask.

"Arl Howe is dead?" Eamon asked, looking startled. "That... changes many things, for the Landsmeet."

Morrigan snorted softly. "'Tis true, he is dead. And well-deserving of it, he was a _most_ foul man," she said, before nodding toward Queen Anora. "And then we rescued the woman, and walked directly into a trap. The wardens were taken to Fort Drakon, the rest of us released as not being _worthy_ of their attention," she finished scornfully.

"When were they taken?" Zevran asked, face setting.

"Late last night." Morrigan answered.

"And have any plans yet been made for their rescue?" he asked quietly.

"No," she said, voice brittle, and looked pointedly at the Arl.

"Rescue from Fort Drakon is impossible," the Arl said sadly. "I am afraid that our only hope is to win at the Landsmeet, and have Queen Anora order their release. And hope they are not... overly damaged, in the meantime."

"So you will be throwing your support behind the Queen then?" Zevran asked lightly.

The Arl nodded sorrowfully. "I have little choice, with Alistair imprisoned. We _must_ have someone who can confront Teryn Loghain before the other nobles, and if Queen Anora is willing to take on that role, I will give her my whole-hearted support," he said, turning to look at the woman enquiringly.

She nodded regally. "My father is not the leader for this country in this time of need," she said coolly. "He _must_ be deposed, this incipient civil war _ended_ , so that we may confront the very real dangers this country currently faces from both the darkspawn and the Orlesians. We already face war on at least one and potentially two fronts; we _cannot_ afford internal division."

Zevran nodded. "Very well. Has anyone seen to Briar?" he asked.

"Alistair's mabari? No," Arl Eamon said, frowning. "Are any of you able to handle him...?"

"He knows myself quite well," Zevran said placidly. "I will go and speak with him. And then take him for a walk."

" _Zevran_..." Owen said sharply.

Zevran gave the mage a look, then glanced at the other members of their party. " _I_ will take him for a walk. He and I are used to each other. I promise I will be back before it is too late."

Morrigan nodded slowly. Wynne, too, gave the slightest nod of her head, while Oghren pocketed his now-empty flask, Sten looked his usual inscrutable self and Mara looked worried. He noticed the Queen giving him an evaluative look as well, and gave her a pleasant smile, suspecting she guessed what he intended to do; of all there, only the Arl seemed oblivious to the meaning of the by-play.

"Be careful," Mara told him.

Zevran smiled cheerfully. "I am always careful," he told them. "Now I suppose you all have much to discuss of plans for the upcoming Landsmeet. Owen has some news to share that may be of interest. Excuse me, I have a hound to comfort," he said, and turned and walked away.

* * *

Jowan had already heard the news, of course; he was distraught, and worried, and more than a little angry. Zevran calmed him enough that the man was able to shift to his hound-shape, and the two set out, ostensibly to go for a walk.

As they crossed the city to where the tower of Fort Drakon loomed over it, Zevran kept up a quiet muttering of plans and ideas, Briar occasionally making sounds of agreement or negation. By the time they reached the gates of the fort they had at least the shell of a plan. It mainly depended on unlikeliness and surprise, but as the alternative was to leave Arren and Alistair in the hands of people who were known to have no compunction about the use of torture... well, better to try than not.

The guards on the front gate proved to be bored and easily convinced to believe that Zevran – having changed to common shabby clothing like a servant, stolen from a clothesline as they crossed the city – was there to deliver Briar to the mabari kennels within the fort.

"Fine looking hound," one of the two guards enthused. "You rarely see them that big, nor in that colouration. And look at the light in his eyes! I'll go fetch the captain to authorize your entry," he said. "Wait in the room over there."

The captain, also a fancier of the massive warhounds, was equally enthusiastic over Briar's conformation, and actually walked them most of the way to the kennels before being called away by another man to deal with a disciplinary problem. His presence saved them a lot of questions.

It wasn't until they reached the kennels themselves – conveniently close to the dungeons, as it happened – that they ran into any question of their presence there. The kennel master knew he wasn't expecting a new hound, and sicced his dogs on Zevran and Briar. Briar's transformation from mabari to mage left the man gaping, and unsettled his hounds enough that they were easy prey for the assassin's blades. Their master followed them into death soon afterwards.

Zevran picked the lock on the massive door leading off to the dungeons, and he and Jowan continued further in. Distant screaming and the smells of old blood, urine, mouldy straw and worse greeted them. Zevran gritted his teeth, and took a firm grip on Jowan's arm as they neared the door at the far end of the winding hallway, steadying him when the mage looked ready to bolt; forward, not backward, he was pleased to see.

"We cannot help them by blindly rushing in," he said softly. "Even if they are being tortured, we must remain calm and do our jobs well, or we will end up captured as well, and of no help to them."

Jowan nodded jerkily, hands clenching and unclenching. "Right," he grated out. "Tell me what to do."

"We're going to open this door as quietly as we can, and try to spot anyone in the vicinity. Hopefully there will be only a few guards about, and we will _deal_ with them, and then find and free our friends. Once that is accomplished we can begin worrying about getting back out again."

"All right," Jowan said. And forced himself to take several deep, shuddering breaths. Zevran felt his arm relax slightly under his hand, nodded, and opened the door.

* * *

There were very few guards, and they killed them without any alarm being raised. A quick search of the cells located Alistair and Arren, crammed together in one, stripped of everything but their smallclothes. Alistair was pale as a ghost and shaking, Arren covered in ugly bruises and unconscious.

"They took away the man from the next cell a while ago," Alistair said shakily. "He kept screaming... they said..."

Jowan cursed, and hugged the man tightly, calming him, then turned away and used what healing powers he had to get the elf back on his feet, while Zevran made a quick search of the rest of the place.

He found the man from the next cell, and did the only thing humane that could be done for what was left of him. On the way back he noticed a familiar sword leaning against the wall beside a large chest; Arren's sword. A check of the chest turned up the remainder of his and Alistair's armour and weapons.

He called the others over, and Alistair and Arren gratefully redressed. Arren was too battered to handle his oversized sword; Alistair strapped it to his own back, taking his sword and shield in hand, rather than leaving it behind.

"Right," he said grimly. "Let's get out of here."

Zevran loaned Arren one of his spare daggers, and they set out. Getting out of the fort was much more difficult than getting in had been; they left a swathe of injured and dead guards behind them on the way out, only by sheerest luck managing to make it out without any actual alarm being raised. Though doubtless it would not be very long until someone stumbled over the bodies, and an alarm and search was raised.

Zevran led them off into the warren of city streets, confident that he could lead them back to the Arl's estate safely. He'd managed an 'impossible' prison break, after all. He was looking forward to seeing the Arl's reaction to Alistair and Arren's return, and once they were far enough away from the fort to feel reasonably safe, began filling the pair in on events since the night before.


	4. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They returned to the estate with excellent timing, marching into the dining room to find everyone seated for dinner, the servers only just beginning to circulate. The Arl stopped talking in mid-word, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide in shock as Alistair and Arren strode in side by side. Zevran strolled in behind them, hands clasped behind his back and a pleased smile on his face, Briar trotting along happily beside him.

They returned to the estate with excellent timing, marching into the dining room to find everyone seated for dinner, the servers only just beginning to circulate. The Arl stopped talking in mid-word, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide in shock as Alistair and Arren strode in side by side. Zevran strolled in behind them, hands clasped behind his back and a pleased smile on his face, Briar trotting along happily beside him.

Morrigan rose abruptly to her feet as soon as they walked in. Arren turned his head to look at her as he strode by the table where she and most of the companions were seated. After a moment she gave a very regal nod of her head, then resumed her seat, looking her usual calm, cool self. Zevran slipped into a seat beside Owen, grinning openly for a moment as Sten rested one hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently in approval, and Oghren saluted him with an upraised glass of something and a nod from across the table.

Arren and Alistair, meanwhile, continued up toward the table where Arl Eamon sat, Queen Anora on one side of him, and Teagan to the other. Teagan had a very pleased expression on his face, while the Queen's was almost studiously blank at first. Then she smiled, and rose to her feet.

"Arren, Alistair, I am very pleased to see the both of you free once more, and seemingly unharmed. This is most unexpected, and most gratifying," she said.

Arren nodded in acknowledgement. "Thank you. I am glad to see you made it to safety after our... sudden parting," he said.

The Arl had finally gotten over his shock, and rose to his feet. "Please, my friends, come and be seated..."

Arren shook his head, raising one hand. "I'm afraid Alistair and I are both rather the worse for wear after our sojourn in the dungeons. We are not fit company for your table at the moment. With your permission, we would prefer to withdraw and see to our physical care. If we could perhaps have dinner sent to our rooms...?"

"Of course," the Arl said, nodding to a nearby servant, who hurried off to see about it. "Will you be up to discussion later this evening, perhaps?"

"Tomorrow morning might be better," Arren said. "Neither of us slept properly last night." The Arl nodded udnerstandingly, then Arren nodded to the Arl, and bowed slightly to the Queen before turning away and leading Alistair and Briar off. Wynne rose and hurried off after the pair. Morrigan made short work of what was left on her plate, before making a transparent excuse and following after them as well.

"Good work," Owen said quietly by Zevran's ear.

"Of course," the rogue agreed, smiling pleasantly. "Will I get a reward for it later?"

Owen laughed, and smiled as he raised his wine goblet to his lips. "Perhaps," he said.

* * *

Alistair pushed his plate away and sank back in his chair, feeling almost human again now that he'd bathed, changed, and eaten. He smiled as Jowan captured his hand and laced their fingers together, then drew the smaller man closer for a kiss. Jowan's other hand cupped around the back of his head, holding it steady, and when the kiss ended, the mage kept it there, leaning down to press his forehead briefly against Alistair's shoulder.

"Don't scare me like that again," Jowan said softly. "I was starting to go frantic, until Zevran showed up and dragged me off to rescue you."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said remorsefully, then hauled the mage over into his lap, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tightly. "I was pretty scared too," he said softly. "Scared and angry, especially after they... they _beat_ Arren, you know, even though we'd surrendered peacefully, just because he was an _elf_ with a _weapon_..." he broke off, trembling.

Jowan hugged him back, making soothing sounds, both men giving and taking comfort from each other's presence.

A quiet knock sounded on the door. "Alistair?" a voice called out – Bann Teagan's voice. Jowan muttered a quiet curse and slipped off of Alistair's lap, disguising himself as Briar again as Alistair walked over to let Teagan in.

Teagan gave the man a relieved smile as he looked him over. "I know you looked fine when you came into the dining room earlier, but I needed to be sure before I left. You are well?" he asked.

"Well enough," Alistair said, lips still down-turned. "Arren, on the other hand..." he stopped, and shrugged. "By now Wynne and Morrigan have doubtless fixed the physical damage," he said, striving to keep his voice neutral.

"Damnation," the bann said, frowning, and shook his head, looking angry and disturbed. "I should stop by his room and talk to him as well. If nothing else, I should tell him about some unexpected guests I seem to have acquired..."

Alistair smiled. "Zevran told us. I'm sure he'll want to talk to you about them, but possibly not right now, if he and Morrigan are, um..."

"Oh, yes," Teagan said, and suddenly smiled. "I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow, in that case. And I should head home and bring my guests up to date about recent events. They will be particularly pleased by the news my brother shared earlier today, that Arl Howe is dead. A little regretful, perhaps that it is not at their own hands," he added, looking dour for a moment. "I heard much from Gemma this morning about events in Highever. More than I honestly wish to know, perhaps. It is an ugly tale, and Howe the prime villain in it."

Alistair nodded. "Given what we saw in those dungeons... I would imagine it was. Thank you for dropping in to check on me," he added, smiling almost bashfully at the man. "You really are my favourite almost-Uncle."

Teagan laughed. "I'm sure. Well, later then," he said, and started to turn away, then stopped and looked back at Alistair, an amused smile on his face. "By the way... a word to the wise... my brother is not always the most observant of men, but even _he_ might start to wonder if you don't make it a little less obvious that you are sharing your quarters," he said, nodding his head toward the corner of the room.

Alistair looked over, and grinned, blushing a little, as he saw what Teagan meant... two backpacks stacked in the corner, clothing spilling out of both, some of it obviously for a much smaller man than Alistair was. "Oops. I guess I'd better learn to be a little more tidy."

"Yes," Teagan agreed dryly, and looked briefly down at Briar, then back at Alistair. "Some day you really must tell me what you've been up to since taking that mage away from Redcliffe. I suspect it's a _fascinating_ story. One that I fear Eamon might not be able to appreciate, but I, on the other hand, bear the mage no ill-will," he added, nodded to both Alistair and Briar, then turned and left.

Alistair walked over and closed the door behind him, making sure to re-lock it.

"I think I like your almost-Uncle," Jowan said, voice rich with amusement, from right behind him.

Alistair laughed, and turned to take the smaller man in his arms. "Good. It would be nice if we managed to remain friends with at least _one_ of my quasi-family members."


	5. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After talking briefly with Anora and Arl Eamon the next day, and hearing what the Queen had to say about troubling rumours from the alienage, Arren decided he should weight his group heavily toward elves in order to investigate; they would blend in better, and be less likely to be the target of the inhabitants' current high ire. He selected Zevran and Mara to accompany him, which meant he had little choice but to bring Owen along as well. The overly tall man _would_ stand out – like a buffalo in a herd of halla – but at least he could look after himself reasonably well if things came to blows. And Mouse came along as well, of course, the grey-coated mabari only rarely being willing to be parted from his person's side.

After talking briefly with Anora and Arl Eamon the next day, and hearing what the Queen had to say about troubling rumours from the alienage, Arren decided he should weight his group heavily toward elves in order to investigate; they would blend in better, and be less likely to be the target of the inhabitants' current high ire. He selected Zevran and Mara to accompany him, which meant he had little choice but to bring Owen along as well. The overly tall man _would_ stand out – like a buffalo in a herd of halla – but at least he could look after himself reasonably well if things came to blows. And Mouse came along as well, of course, the grey-coated mabari only rarely being willing to be parted from his person's side.

Arren was unsurprised to see a hawk circling high overhead as he led the way to the alienage; just because she wasn't officially part of their group did not mean that Morrigan wasn't going to keep an eye on him, and be ready to come to their aid if necessary.

It amused him slightly that none of the elves in the group had any real experience of alienages themselves. He himself was Dalish; the very concept was pretty much anathema to everything he'd been taught, growing up. Alienages were wrong, and the flat-ear elves who allowed themselves to be caged within them could only barely be considered to still be elves; by the strictest interpretations they had forgotten almost everything that _made_ them an elf, and might as well be human, their physical resemblance to the Dalish being the only elven thing that they had retained.

And then there was Zevran, who hadn't ever set foot in an alienage until he was already an adult grown, a working Crow. He seemed to consider the actions of the elves who lived within them almost as incomprehensible as Arren did; why live segregated within the human cities like this, he seemed to feel, when integration was just as easy and let you live in much more pleasant and pleasurable surroundings.

Finally there was Mara, whose mother may have been either a quite well-off alienage elf, or a servant living somewhere outside the alienage. In any case she herself had been removed from Denerim and taken to the tower at such an early age that she had no memories of the place at all, and very few of her family beyond some vague memories of a long-haired woman.

Of everyone in the group, it was Owen who had the most real knowledge of the Denerim alienage; he'd lived here until his early teens, after all. While most of his time had been spent in locations where he could pick pockets and cut purses, such as the Denerim market, or down by the docks, he'd been quite familiar with places like the alienage as well, had even had the odd friend among the alienage elves. He gave them a quick string of cautions as they approached the alienage.

"Don't think that your being elven will prevent any thieves among them from trying to prey on you; anyone who looks like they have more than two coppers to rub together is a target, whether by the merely desperate or by those who care little whom they rob, as long as they acquire something. Keep an eye on your purse and your belongings at all time. Anything you turn your back on or put down you can expect to grow legs and walk off; of all the desperate poor in Denerim, the poor in the alienage are pretty much the worst-off. And especially with the alienage having been locked-down for so long, people are going to be even more desperate than usual; they haven't been able to get out to work, to beg, to buy food, to thieve or scavenge..."

Arren nodded, jaw setting. He really was not looking forward to this foray into the alienage.

The guards at the gate to the alienage weren't willing at first to open for them, but that had been planned for; Arren produced a permit written out by Queen Anora, authorizing their group to enter and investigate conditions within the alienage as her representatives. He found it annoying at first that the guard insisted on addressing _Owen_ as the leader of their group, presumably because he was the only human among them, but then his sense of humour compared Owen's dress to the rest of them, and he started to find it funny.

The mage had dressed down today, in his plainest linen shirt, a pair of buckskin leggings, and a rather ratty-looking woolen cloak. Mara was wearing a beautifully embroidered and richly dyed robe with a cloak trimmed in rabbit fur, Arren was in his usual black-dyed steel-studded leathers, Zevran in an equally impressive set of leathers in blue and purple tones. Yet which one of them did the guard decide was the leader? The poorly dressed human.

It became less funny when they crossed the bridge over into the alienage proper and the first group of elves they encountered seemed to share the same belief. That even the _elves_ seemed to automatically assume that _human_ equalled leader... he shook his head in disgust as the flat-ears ordered the "tall shem and his fancy servants" to turn around and go elsewhere.

He cleared his throat, and crossed his arms. Owen, Mara and Zevran all looked attentively at him.

"First of all, _I_ am the leader of this group, not my rather tall friend, and _none_ of us are servants. Second, we are here to investigate the cause of the unrest here in the alienage, and we _will_ be proceeding further in to determine for ourselves what that cause is. Third, I am looking for an elf named Soris, who told me I could find him here."

"Soris? But he..." one said, then broke off at a signal from the dark-haired elf who seemed to be the leader of their group.

He looked Arren over, eyes lingering speculatively on the hilt of Arren's massive sword for a long moment, then suddenly nodded, and stepped aside. "You do seem to match the description he gave me of his rescuer," the man said softly. "Soris is in the house that's the third door on the left as you enter."

Arren nodded in turn, and led his group in, the group of elves returning to guarding the entry as they moved away. He knocked on the indicated door.

It opened a crack, then there was a delighted exclamation and it was thrown wide, revealing a skinny male elf, with reddish-brown hair and light grey eyes, his skin the pale pallor resulting from a too-long time away from sunlight. "Arren! You came! Please, come in..." he exclaimed, and stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter.

They all filed in, finding themselves in a single large oddly-shaped room, one corner occupied by several beds, most of the room a combination cooking-eating-living area, poorly lit by a tiny fire in a large fireplace at one end of the room. Heavy rafters crossed most of the space, clearing the heads of the elves but otherwise so low that Owen had to duck under them.

"I wish I could offer you some hospitality, but with the alienage locked down as it is..." Soris said, and shrugged unhappily. "I can offer you water, though I'd need to fetch it first."

"It's all right, we require nothing; I just wanted to check that you'd made it back home safely. And ask if you can tell us anything about the unrest here. From what you said in the dungeons where we found you, it sounded like you knew about what started it all?"

Soris gave a strangled laugh, then made a sour face, shaking his head and sinking down in a chair at the table. "You _could_ say that, yes," he said "It was _supposed_ to be my wedding day. That's what started it all..."

Arren sat down as well, the others remaining on their feet and listening as Soris talked of a day that had started happily enough, and ended in abduction, murder, and rape.

* * *

Zevran kept half an ear on the elf's story – one of the sort all-too-common wherever those of little-to-no influence were in the power of those with great influence and little morals. A wedding disrupted, brides and maids of honour abducted, death.

They were not alone in here, he realized some little way into the story, though it took him a while to place where the other person was hiding. Not over in the corner with the beds, or behind the rag-curtained doorway leading to what he assumed was some additional room of the small, dingy dwelling, but hiding somewhere up in the rafters, in the dusty darkness overhead. Over above the fireplace, where the air was a little warmer and the shadows much thicker, he thought. Whomever is was, was good at hiding – very good – but he heard a sharp intake of breath at one point in Soris' story that came from none of his companions, and then a few minutes later a few motes of debris fell to the floor. Which he might have dismissed as something knocked off a rafter by a scurrying rat, had it not been for that earlier breath.

He shifted position slightly, moving half a step back so that he had Owen's bulk between him and the fireplace, putting his eyes in shadow. Then he let his gaze slowly rise – not directly toward where he thought the person was hiding, but where it would fall in his peripheral vision – and waited while his eyes adjusted to the increased darkness.

There, an anomalous lump wedged between the ceiling and a support beam. Curves, not straight lines; something organic, not structure. It moved, just slightly, more debris pattering near-silently down.

"...and then they ran him through. He'd never even held a bow in his hands before that day," Soris was saying, sickened. "All he wanted to do was save his bride... they hadn't even met before that morning. They were about to kill me, as well, and then Vaughan came out of the bedroom, and said it would be better to let me see what they... what they'd done to the women... and then throw me in the dungeon to rot."

He covered his eyes with his hands, voice a low monotone. "Nola was dead, they'd killed her, run her through. My bride, Valora, she was lying naked on the ground, all bruised, and... and _bleeding_ , there was _so much_ blood. My cousins Shianni and Tria, there was... men were..." he broke off.

"Tria?" Owen exclaimed, looking shocked. "Not... Tria Tabris?"

Soris gave him a startled look. "How do you..."

"I knew the Tabris family, years ago. Adaia taught me some dagger work, after I made the mistake of trying to pick her pocket once... Tria was just a little girl then, she's have been... seven, maybe eight years old... I used to bring her candy," he said, sounding dazed. "What happened to her?"

"She's dead," a voice said softly from high overhead. "Dead and rotted."

The shape Zevran had been watching out of the corner of his eyes moved, dropped down, crouching on one of the rafters overhead. Almost skeletally thin, with huge dark eyes and dark hair chopped raggedly short, dusky olive skin showing through rents in the ragged remnants of clothing she wore. She tilted her head, birdlike, peering out of one mad eye at the tall mage.

"Show me the scar," she demanded suddenly.

The words clearly meant something to Owen; he tilted his head to one side, reaching up and parting his hair, and stood very still. She edged closer along the rafter, then one claw-like hand lowered down, feeling his scalp. From where he stood Zevran could see the dark crescents of dirt under her ragged nails, the grime on her skin, something _scurrying_ up her arm... he couldn't recall seeing anyone this _filthy_ since they'd taken Jowan away from the Redcliffe dungeons.

"Owen," she said, hand withdrawing. "I remember you." She tilted her head again, dark hair flopping down over her eyes, peered at him through the lank, greasy strands. "Did you bring me candy?" she asked in a sweet, child-like voice.

"Tria," Owen said softly, then asked Soris, without looking away from her disturbing gaze. "Her parents?"

"Adaia died, years ago," Soris answered softly, his eyes fixed on her as well. "Cyrion is... he was taken into quarantine, just before I came back. Shianni told me they'd been looking after Tria... as much as anyone can," he added bitterly. "She lives on the rooftops, in the rafters and attics, in crawlspaces and holes in the ground..."

"Tria is dead," the elf crouched in the rafters repeated in a sing-song voice, face placid.

Owen reached into his belt pouch, took out a bit of dried fruit, and held it up on the flat of his hand. "For you," he said softly. Tria froze, watching him, then leaned down and snatched it, backing off to nibble at it. He took out another piece, held it up. This time, when she reached for it, he caught her hand. As she gave an outraged, frightened squawk, his own hand flared with power. She went limp, and he caught her in his arms as she fell off of the rafter, lowering himself to sit on the floor with her in his lap.

"What... how did you..." Soris exclaimed, jumping to his feet and backing off, looking frightened.

"He is a healer," Arren said, voice soft and even. "Can you do anything to help her?" he asked, turning to look down at Owen.

"Maybe. Physically she's mainly suffering from malnutrition, exhaustion and parasites," the mage answered, hands glowing with power again as he delicately examined her. "Mentally... I don't know," he said, frowning unhappily. "I'll do what I can for now," he said, then glanced at Soris. "She needs washing, and food. The cleaning would best be done by her female cousin, I think – Shianni, you said? I think I remember her – red-haired? A couple years younger than Tria?"

Soris nodded. "She's probably over by the quarantine building, in the square by the Vhenadahl. She says she doesn't trust the Tevinter healers that have been sent in to deal with the plague."

"Plague?" Owen asked, looking up with concern. "That's the second time you've mentioned a quarantine. We heard nothing of this out in the city," he added, looking questioningly at Arren.

"No, we didn't – only that the alienage had been sealed off as a result of the unrest. There's plague here?"

"Supposedly, yes," Soris agreed. "Shianni doesn't believe it's true, just the normal coughs and fevers we see every year around this time. She doesn't like how people keep being taken into quarantine and never coming back out again."

"All right, that sounds like something we should be looking at," Arren said. "Owen, do you need to stay here, or...?"

Owen shook his head, rising to his feet. "There's no more I can do for her right now," he said. "I've put sleep on her; she'll not wake for at least several hours. We'll ask Shianni to come help you look after her, and I'll stop by again later, before we leave," he added, and dug into his belt pouch, pulling out a handful of dried fruit and strips of jerky and setting it on the table. "Make broth out of the jerky, try to get some into her," he instructed.

Soris nodded, watching wide-eyed as they left.


	6. Bittersweet Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The blood-mage seemed to realize immediately that his chances of convincing three very angry elves to let him escape with his life were slim. So he turned to the tall human mage in the party, and pleaded with him, as seductively as he could.

The blood-mage seemed to realize immediately that his chances of convincing three very angry elves to let him escape with his life were slim. So he turned to the tall human mage in the party, and pleaded with him, as seductively as he could.

Owen had no more sympathy for him than the others did. His sword removed the Tevinter Magister's head even as Arren moved in, ducking and spinning under his moving arm to reverse his sword deep into the mage's gut. Zevran was already moving to pick the locks on the cages full of elves, Mara resorting to the much more straight-forward technique of blasting apart the locks on her side of the room with carefully controlled bursts of magic.

The _hahren_ of the elves, Valendrian, stepped forward and bowed to the group. "I thank you for our lives," he said. "We owe you more than I can say."

Arren nodded, face grim as he looked around the corpse-strewn room. Not all were the guards of the mage; several elven corpses were thrown in a pile in one corner of the room, like so much waste material. Maker only knew how many of the alienage elves had been killed outright by the magister and his minions, or shipped off into slavery in Tevinter.

Zevran rose from searching the magister's corpse, silently holding out a document to Arren. "It is as he said – a permit, sighed by Teryn Loghain," Zevran said darkly.

Arren took it, nodded, folded the paper and put it safely away in his own belt pouch.

"I would not of believed it of the Teryn," Valendrian said quietly. "He was a hero to us elves, long ago. A friend. No more. Excuse me, I should see that my people all get out of here safely."

Arren exchanged a bow with the man, then helped his companions in searching the bodies for any other evidence or valuables.

It had been a long day, since they'd set foot in the alienage. First that business with Soris and his cousin Tria, then locating Shianni, questioning the Tevinter mages – who'd proven stupid enough to attempt abducting Mara, Zevran and Arren into their so-called "quarantine" on the spot. Then in searching for what could have happened to the vanished elves, they'd met that blinded templar, and ending up having to deal with a nest of demons and abominations before continuing the search for the elves.

At least they _had_ found the elves, before any more of them could be smuggled out of the city and off into slavery. It was a bitter victory, knowing from Shianni's tale how very few of the missing elves they'd actually managed to rescue.

It was a subdued party that re-emerged from the warren of dilapidated tenements back into the square centred on the towering vhenedahl. Arren still wondered what the symbolism of the great tree was; the lore of the Dalish did not speak of such. Some lingering connection of the city elves to their past in the great forests that had once covered much of the world? The city elves did not know, either, according to what Zevran told him. Just that such a tree grew in every alienage in the world, and flourished only so long as the elves lived there.

Mara walked over to the tree, staring up at it's branches overhead for a long moment. She'd done that earlier, too, when they'd first seen it, when they'd come in search of Shianni. She reached out now, laying her hand on the rough, paint-daubed bark. "I... _remember_ this, I think..." she said, wonderingly, then slowly walked around the tree, peering down at its root. The group exchanged glances, and followed her. She stopped abruptly, crouching down and reached out to trace a small weather-worn hand print, a daub of white by the base of one root. "I did that," she said, voice small and bewildered. "That was my print."

"You are a child of this alienage?" a voice asked, surprised, and they turned to find Valendrian standing nearby, looking with frank curiosity at Mara now. "What is your name?"

"Mara Surana," she said, softly.

Valendrian smiled. "I remember you, child. We thought you dead, with your mother... but – you are a mage? You were taken to the tower?"

"Yes. Do I... do I have... relatives here?"

"Sadly, no... your mother's family came from an alienage in Orlais during the occupation, with their noble employer – from Churneau, I think it was, I would need to check our records to be sure. Most of them returned to Orlais after the liberation, save your mother. She was just a young girl then, but an old Orlesian noblewoman who chose to continue living in Denerim rather than returning to Orlais had hired her on as a servant, so she remained here. Your father came here from Ansburg, in the Free Marches, with a returning Ferelden noble. The two felt equally strangers here, and I suppose that is what brought them together. They married, and were happy together for many years. They had begun to think they were cursed with childlessness, and then you came along," he added, smile widening. "Sadly your father died not long afterwards. And then just a couple of years later, your mother was killed..." he shook his head sadly. "I can learn more for you if you wish, write to Churneau and Ansburg..."

Mara smiled, and shook her head. "No. It is enough that I know who my family were. Thank you."

Valendrian nodded, bowed to Arren again, and walked off.

"Well, we should go check on Soris and Tria, and then get back to the Arl's estate," Arren said.

* * *

Tria was looking a little better; cleaner, anyway. She still slept. Shianni had washed her, dressed her in clean clothes, even trimmed her hair. Owen say down carefully on the edge of the bed she had been laid out on, and picked up her hand in his. "Wake up, Tria," he said softly.

She stirred, opened her eyes, stared blankly at the ceiling above. "Tria's dead," she said softly.

"No, she's not," he said gently.

"...not? But they killed her," she said, turning to look at Owen. "I know you," she said, smiling sweetly, child-like. "Did you bring me candy?"

"No, not today," he said. "Go back to sleep, Tria."

"All right," she said, trustingly, and curled up.

He gently put her hand back down on the bed, and frowned, then turned to look at Shianni and Soris, standing anxiously by. Cyrion, sadly, had not been among the elves they'd recovered; no one knew if he had been shipped off into slavery, or been among those killed by the Magister and his accomplishes.

"Can you do anything to help her?" Shianni asked hopefully.

"I'm not sure," Owen said uneasily. "As a healer I work only with the body, not the mind, and it's her thoughts that are... damaged. There are only two kinds of mages I know of that can touch the mind. One is extremely rare – I have only read of them, in ancient texts of the elves, the dreamers."

"And the other?" Soris asked apprehensively.

"Blood mages can sometimes use their powers to influence the sleeping mind," Owen said, frowning. "As you might guess, that particular power of theirs is usually _not_ used in any healing way, but rather as part of how they control and torment their thralls," he said, then scratched distractedly at his head. "I... might be able to help her anyway. If we take her away from the places and things that remind her of what happened to her, and get her physically strong again as well, it may be that her mind will begin to heal itself as well. Or she may remain as she is. I cannot say, I can only try. It would mean taking her away with me," he added, looking enquiringly at the pair.

Shianni sighed, and exchanged a look with Soris. "Cyrion and I were doing what we could for her, and that wasn't enough. With Cyrion... gone... sold into slavery, or dead... I don't know."

Soris spoke slowly. "If she goes with you, she will at least be no worse, correct? And you can see to her physical welfare?"

Owen nodded.

Soris sighed. "Then I think we should let you take her away. It is at least a chance that she might get better. Here..." he shook his head. "You've seen how little we could do for her."

Shianni started crying, but nodded. "You're right," she told Soris, and looked at Owen and his friends. "Do what you can for her. And if you can send us word, occasionally, about how she's doing...?"

Owen smiled warmly at the distraught elf. "Of course," he agreed.

* * *

Arren looked questioningly at Owen as they crossed the bridge back to the market gate, the big mage easily carrying the sleeping woman wrapped up in his cloak. "You're thinking of seeing if Jowan can do anything for her," he said. "In dreams."

Owen smiled slightly. "Of course."

Arren nodded. "Have Alistair sit in on anything to do with it – discussions, planning, any actual workings. I trust his instincts and training to see to it that the two of you stay on the right side of the line when using Jowan's more... morally questionable powers."

Owen nodded agreement.

When they got back to the estate, Owen saw the unconscious elf installed in the trundle bed in the room Mara was sharing with Wynne – Morrigan having quietly moved her things over into Arren's room their first night here – feeling that it was the best place for her while they remained at the Arl's estate. He quickly brought Wynne up to date on what he'd done so far to rectify Tria's manifold health problems, and left her in the older woman's far more experienced care, returning to his own room.


	7. Consultations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zevran already had the tub in the bathroom room off of their room filled with hot water, and was lounging at his ease in it. He smiled invitingly at Owen. "I know with your magics we do not have to worry that we may have brought back... _passengers_... after our little sojourn through the nastier corners and back alleys of the alienage, but that does nothing for the grime and assorted stinks we came in contact with there. I thought we might enjoy taking a bath together," he said, raising one eyebrow.

Zevran already had the tub in the bathroom room off of their room filled with hot water, and was lounging at his ease in it. He smiled invitingly at Owen. "I know with your magics we do not have to worry that we may have brought back... _passengers_... after our little sojourn through the nastier corners and back alleys of the alienage, but that does nothing for the grime and assorted stinks we came in contact with there. I thought we might enjoy taking a bath together," he said, raising one eyebrow.

Owen grinned, and began stripping off his own clothing. "I _do_ like a partner who anticipates my needs," he said, tossing aside his shirt and kicking off his shoes. He quickly skinned out of his leggings and smallclothes as well, then walked around the tub to behind where Zevran was sitting. "Scootch forward a little," he ordered, then once the elf had moved out of the way, stepped down into the tub behind him, lowering himself down and putting his legs to either side of the elf, before wrapping his arms around him and drawing him back to rest against his own chest.

"Mmm, very nice," Zevran said approvingly. He picked up a cloth and soap from where he'd left them handy to the tub, and after working up a lather, began scrubbing the bits of Owen and himself he could reach in his current position. Owen eventually released him and picked up a cloth as well, and their bathing rapidly turned into a squirming game, the two of them contorting around to wash various bits of each other – either because of the presence of actual grime, or just because the bits were interesting, hindered only by the fact that the tub was really only large in relation to an average-sized human, and was rather small for two people, one of whom was near qunari-sized in height. There was some banging of elbows and knees, occasional curses or gasps, and a lot of splashing of water out onto the floor.

They were both grinning widely by the time they were satisfied with their cleanliness. Owen was flat on his back in the water, head raised against the sloped end of the tub, his feet resting on the opposite rim, knees in the air, Zevran straddling his waist, toying curiously with his chest hair.

"This position is giving me naughty ideas," the mage said.

Zevran grinned, and slid further back a little, until his buttocks came in contact with Owen's erection. "Mmm, so I can tell," he said approvingly, rubbing himself against it suggestively.

Before things could progress on to anything more intriguing, there was a knock at the door to their room. Owen muttered a curse.

"Yes?" he called out. "Who is it?"

"It's Arren."

"Just a minute," Owen called back. Zevran was already scrambling out of the tub. The two quickly dried off and pulled on at least minimal clothing, then Zevran hurried over and unlocked the door.

It was more than just Arren – Alistair and Briar were there as well. Arren smiled slightly as he took in the two men's half-dressed and dripping state. His own hair was still damp from the bath he too had taken as soon as reaching his room. "Sorry to interrupt you, " he said. "But apparently things finally came to a head among the nobles while we were off fighting demons and slavers. They've decided to begin the Landsmeet tomorrow. And I'd like to consult with our newest allies before it begins. Owen, Zevran, could you guide us to Bann Teagan's household, please?"

"Of course," Owen said, and quickly drew on more clothing, Zevran doing the same. In short order they were both decently dressed, hair rubbed dry and combed out.

As the group was leaving the estate, a cloaked-and-hooded figure slipped out of a side-passage and joined their group. Arren looked sharply at the person. "Your majesty..." he began, startled as he recognized who it was.

"Hush. I too wish to consult with our allies," Anora said quietly. "And have a chance to talk with both you and Alistair away from Arl Eamon's oversight. I trust that your group is sufficient to keep me safe on the streets of Denerim?"

Arren nodded, and the party remained silent until they were out and in the city. Arren gave Alistair and Anora a brief rundown about events in the alienage that day.

"It is hard for me to believe that my father could do such a cruel thing to the elves," Anora said, the grief in her voice audible. "He is not one of those nobles who believes elves are less than human; he had friends among them, from his years leading the Night Elves, and has always maintained good relations with the elves in and around Gwaren, our city elves and the Dalish clans both."

Arren nodded. "It puzzles me, as well," he admitted. "I know he was one of very few humans our keeper ever had a kind word about, and her regard is hard to win. Still, desperate men will sometimes do things that would normally be abhorrent to them, and since the losses at Ostagar..." he trailed off, frowning unhappily.

"It does not forgive his actions," Anora said.

"No, it doesn't," Arren agreed.

"We're here," Owen said, and nodded at the door of a nearby townhouse.

* * *

Arren wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when Queen Anora and the Couslands met. Whatever it had been, it wasn't what actually happened. Anora and Gemma took one look at each, burst into tears, and pretty much flew into each other's arms. All the men quickly withdrew to Teagan's study to give the two women some time alone, Bann Teagan seeing them all seated with a glass of sweet white wine from his own winery before allowing any talk of business.

"They were always close friends, growing up," Fergus said, gravely, referring to the absent women. "All of us were... we saw each other quite frequently, whenever events or festivities drew nobles together for one reason or another. I still find it hard to believe that Cailan is gone, much less my entire family..." he stopped himself, and turned to look searchingly at Alistair. "You're his half-brother, Teagan tells me. You do have the Theirin looks, though I'd wager you have inches in height and breadth over Cailan. And Arl Eamon wishes you made king."

" _Not_ something I have any interest in myself, believe me," Alistair said, jaw setting stubbornly. "I'm a Grey Warden., first, foremost, and always."

"I'm glad to hear that," Anora's voice said, and they turned to see her entering the room with Gemma, both of them still red-eyed and with an arm comfortingly placed around each other's waist. Everyone quickly rose to their feet. "Were you aware that Arl Eamon has been pressuring me to marry you in order to secure the throne?" she asked Alistair, tilting her head slightly to one side as she looked up at him, her arms crossing.

"No!" Alistair exclaimed, looking so honestly shocked that Anora smiled. "Anyway, I couldn't marry you. I'm already taken."

Anora frowned. "Married? To whom?" she asked sharply.

"Not _married_ , as such..," Alistair corrected. He tugged on one ear, looked questioningly at Arren. "Teagan already guessed," he said evasively. "Should we..."

Briar took the choice into his own hands, transforming back into Jowan, drawing startled gasps from Anora and the Couslands, and an amused smile from Teagan. He bowed deeply to the Queen. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I met your father once, but we've not been formally introduced. I'm Jowan, a mage of the Circle," he said.

Alistair stepped forward and put his arms around the smaller man, and grinned over his head at Anora. "I don't think you'll have to worry about any issue of mine potentially muddying the succession, at least," he pointed out dryly.

Teagan laughed, a deep, rich sound. "Good boy, putting your finger on the key political point," he said approvingly, and turned to smile at Queen Anora. "Of course, it would help if Jowan remains free of confinement to the circle tower..."

A slight smile curved her lips. She moved to sit down on a nearby loveseat, gesturing for the men to resume their seats as well. Gemma sat down beside her. "Of course," Anora agreed, nodding. "That would follow, wouldn't it. Very well, assuming we all survive this blight, I will use whatever influence I have to see that the two are not parted against their wishes. Now... Fergus, do you wish to challenge for Highever tomorrow, or...?"

Fergus frowned thoughtfully, and ran hand through his hair. "Truthfully, I see little advantage in doing so. I fear that the public reappearance of Gemma and myself, and any attempt to reclaim our Terynir at this time, would distract from the real issue the Landsmeet should be focusing on; combating this blight. It little matters who was holding where, even who rules, if the land is overrun with darkspawn. I was there, in the south, not just prior to Ostagar but for some time afterwards, during my sojourn with the Chasind."

He drew a deep breath, frown depending, and continued. "I have seen the ruined lands the spawn leave behind them. If the darkspawn break out of the south, spread over the country – the occupation by the Orlesians will seem as _nothing_ compared to what that would do to Ferelden. Darkspawn leave blighted plants and wildlife wherever they pass, a poisonous waste anywhere they linger. The Chasind say that only burning everything down to the soil will cleanse the land afterwards, and the recovery is long and slow. If we do not stop the darkspawn, and soon, then Ferelden will end a burnt-over desert, our people starving for lack of safely arable land. Weakened that badly, we would be helpless to resist invasion by foreign powers – assuming any would even want us, with our forests and grasslands seared away."

"Orlais would still hunger for our mineral resources, if nothing else," Bann Teagan pointed out. "Many of their own mines are played out, and what remains is deep, within the levels once claimed by the dwarves and now overrun by darkspawn. With our much lower population, and comparatively large areas of still-untouched wilderness, we are a veritable storehouse of easily-accessed mineral wealth compared to their own dwindling resources. My own lands of Rainesfere have long made a tidy profit from the little mining I allow."

Fergus nodded. "As did Highever. I can recall my father talking about how his Orlesian contacts were always pressing him to produce more, and didn't understand his reluctance to turn to more widespread mining..."

Teagan smiled. "An issue on which your father and I were much in agreement," he said, then shrugged. "Mineral wealth can only be taken from the land once. Once it is removed, it is gone forever. Fertile farmland, well-grown orchards, productive forests rich with game, those will produce wealth as long as they are maintained. I will not rape away the fertility of my land for short-term gain merely because an ore-body lies under it. The land and its people will still be there long after I am dead; more gold in my vaults now is not worth making paupers of them both."

"Well said," Anora said approvingly. "My father argued the same for our lands of Gwaren, that the trees and animals of our forests represented a source of wealth over time that no short-sighted destruction of it could ever hope to equal." She looked sorrowful for a moment. "He was a good steward, once. If there is any one thing I am most bitter about since the events at Ostagar... it is how it has changed him. He is not the man he was. And tomorrow we must do what we can to bring an end to his misrule, and Ferelden's focus back to where it belongs – not on petty politicking, but on defeating this blight."

Fergus nodded. "Best Gemma and I remain here tomorrow. Summon us if you feel our help would be of use."

"Of course," Anora said, then glanced at Gemma. "I believe I will go walk in the garden for a while before I return to the Arl's estate. Gemma, will you accompany me?"

Gemma nodded, and the two women rose to their feet. Zevran promptly popped to his feet as well. "I will keep an eye on the two ladies," he said, and looked at Anora. "Discretely. But you should not be outdoors without a guard of some kind, even in a sheltered garden."

Anora frowned, then nodded agreement. The three left the room.

"Well, is there anything else we should discuss while we're all together?" Bann Teagan asked politely.

Arren nodded. "You and Fergus should be aware of what we found out in the alienage today," he said, and he and Owen quickly brought the two men up to speed on the day's events. Teagan, for his part, had some rumours to share about how support for Loghain was crumbling in the wake of Arl Howe's death and the discoveries Arren and his group had made in the dungeons of the Denerim estate.

"All sorts of unpleasant truths have been coming out as a result of that little event," Teagan said sombrely. "Even Loghain's support from the army is on shaky ground now, after word leaked – I'd assume from young Oswyn – that Howe had imprisoned and tortured to death numerous soldiers for nothing worse then speaking openly of what they'd personally witnessed at Ostagar. The soldiers feel – and rightly – that as commander of the armed forces, Loghain should have been protecting them from any such abuse. If he was aware of what Howe was doing, and either condoned it or ignored it – either way, it's a shocking betrayal of his men."

Fergus nodded agreement. After that conversation turned to more general topics, Fergus regaling them with tales of his time among the Chasind, Alistair telling of his travels since Ostagar, Arren and Jowan adding details where they felt appropriate.

* * *

Zevran lounged against a tree, eating an apple, watching the two women. They had walked together along a winding circular path through the garden for a long while, heads bent together, talking quietly. He assumed about events in both their lives since the fall of Highever and the death of Anora's husband at Ostagar – they'd had that look to them, of two women sharing sorrows. He'd very carefully kept his ears tuned away from their conversation, allowing the two as much privacy as he could and still watch over their safety.

They were seated now, on a marble bench beneath an arched trellis overgrown with greenery. In the right season, it was undoubtedly lovely with flowers, but this late in the year there was only foliage left, much of it already beginning to look ratty and turn colour as the nights grew colder. The ladies themselves supplied more than enough loveliness by themselves, however, the bright head and the dark bent together as they talked softly, both smiling now, presumably having worked their way to some lighter topic than their separate griefs.

He heard the creak of a door, and glanced over his shoulder to see the men emerging from the house, Fergus and Teagan in the fore, Owen at the back, Arren and Alistair in between with Briar.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Bann Teagan said, cutting a rather fine bow to the two women as they looked up. "But it's getting late, and Arren tells me he should be getting back to my brother's house."

Anora nodded, and rose to her feet. Gemma rose as well, and the women walked back over to the men, Zevran dropping his apple core on the ground and moving to rejoin the group as well.

Anora looked back and forth from Gemma to Fergus. "I am glad to have seen the two of you again. I will send word, or Teagan will bring it himself, as soon as we know the outcome of the Landsmeet. Or if I find we have need of you."

Fergus nodded. "We will be waiting. I wish you all success tomorrow, my Queen," he said. "Know that Highever supports you, in spirit if not in person."

Anora smiled warmly at him. "I thank you. I hope this mess is solved soon, and you restored to your Terynir," she said, then turned to Gemma and exchanged a warm hug with the other woman. Then she pulled the hood of her cloak forward, hiding her too-recognizable face again, and they departed, walking quickly and quietly back through the streets to Arl Eamon's house, the minds of all of them on the next day, the coming Landsmeet.


	8. A Slight Miscalculation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As soon as Owen had closed their bedroom door behind them, Zevran found himself being enveloped in the mage's arms, the large man leaning down to rest his head on the elf's shoulder, nosing into his hair to lip at the shell of one pointed ear. Zevran grinned, reaching up to rest his hand against Owen's scruffy cheek.

As soon as Owen had closed their bedroom door behind them, Zevran found himself being enveloped in the mage's arms, the large man leaning down to rest his head on the elf's shoulder, nosing into his hair to lip at the shell of one pointed ear. Zevran grinned, reaching up to rest his hand against Owen's scruffy cheek.

"Mmmm... not that I am complaining, of course, but what brings this on?" he asked, tilting his head to give the man better access to his ear, arching his neck like a cat arching its back at the pleasant sensation.

"Mmmm, well, the fact that we were so annoyingly interrupted earlier, for one," Owen said. "Just when things were starting to get interesting, too."

Zevran smiled, then ducked his head away from Owen's attentions and turned in his arms, reaching up to cup Owen's face and pressed a heated kiss to his lips. "For one? Then what is for two?"

Owen grinned, and caught the elf around the ribs, heaving him upwards as he straightened. Zevran locked his legs around the mage's waist, and immediately became away of something pressing firmly against his own groin. "Ah. Is that how it is?" he asked, voice amused, and glanced down pointedly.

Owen grinned, then turned and leaned Zevran's back against the wall, freeing his hands to tug Zevran's shirt loose and slide up under it, his mouth capturing Zevran's and returning the rogue's kiss with interest. Zevran made a sound of approval, hooking his arms around the man's neck to make it easier for Owen to hold him up, and grinding his hips encouragingly against him. Owen growled at that, then broke the kiss. He slid his arms back around the elf's back, and turned, carrying him over to their bed, Zevran pressing kisses along his jaw and neck as he did so, hands tangling into the mage's long hair. Reaching the side of the bed, Owen stopped, and patted Zevran's hip. "Legs down," he directed.

Zevran nodded, and let his legs drop free, so that he was standing on the bed while Owen remained standing on the floor. It raised him enough that he was looking slightly down at the mage, an unusual viewpoint given the man's gargantuan stature. They spent a good few minutes just pleasantly exploring how that changed what could easily be kissed or caressed.

Owen started stripping off Zevran's clothes, tossing things aside piece by piece until Zevran was nude, gently batting aside Zevran's hands when the elf tried to remove his as well. He stepped back slightly, hands resting on Zevran's hips, and looked him up and down appreciatively. "Yum," he said, and licked his lips pointedly. "I never did give you your reward last night, did I?" he asked speculatively.

"Hmmm, no, I believe we went pretty much straight to sleep last night," Zevran agreed. "I blame having been awake so late the night before, at our friend Teagan's charming residence. Does this mean you are thinking of giving me my reward now?"

Owen grinned, and tossed his head, flipping his long hair out of his eyes. "Yes."

"Delightful. Do I get a choice in the matter, or do you already have fiendish plans for how to take advantage of my so-willing body?"

"Mmmm. Fiendish plans, I think," Owen growled, and stepped close again, lowering his head to lick and bite at the skin around the base of Zevran's neck. Zevran hissed in approval, tilting his head well back to give Owen easier access to his throat. Owen worked his way lower after a little while, licking and biting at Zevran's nipples, large hands stroking almost randomly along his body and limbs, until the elf's legs were shaking with the effort of remaining upright.

Finally Owen drew back. "Lie down, on your back," he ordered, and began taking off his own clothing at last, quickly stripping down to bare skin. Zevran was lounging back on his elbows, watching appreciatively. Owen gave him a crooked smile, raising one eyebrow, and Zevran grinned toothily back at him, then licked his lips pointedly.

Owen laughed, before crouching down and digging into his pack, coming back to his feet a moment later with a wide sash in one hand. "Sit up," he said, and moved to sit down beside Zevran. He smoothed out the fabric, draping it over his thigh, then reached to strip out Zevran's braids, carding his hair back over his shoulders. He leaned in, and kissed Zevran tenderly. "I'm going to blindfold you," he said, warningly.

Zevran nodded acceptingly. "And then...?"

"Have my wicked way with you."

Of course. Go ahead, _mi mago_ , you know I trust you."

Owen smiled. "Hold your hair back out of the way," he whispered, and lifted the strip of cloth as Zevran scraped his hair back as if putting it into a ponytail. The sash, meant to go around his waist, went twice around Zevran's head, with long tails left dangling in back.

"All right, lie back down again," he said softly, voice husky. Zevran lay back down, raised slightly against the pillows at the head of the bed. Owen made an approving noise. "Lift your knees, and spread them," he instructed, as he rose from the bed and returned to his backpack, fetching a few things he thought he might need over the course of delivering Zevran's reward.

Zevran silently did as he'd been told.

* * *

He'd done blindfolded play before, but most often with _him_ being the one doing the blindfolding. It had been several years at least since the last time it had been done _to_ him. He'd almost forgotten how subtly disorienting it could be, feeling the bed dip and shift under him as Owen moved around him, not knowing when and where he'd be touched next, whether by hand or by something else. Lips, now, warm and dry against his stomach, the slight scratch of Owen's facial scruff scraping against his skin as the man nuzzled around his navel. Something dripped on his arm, just slightly cool, and his nostrils flared, catching the almost-neutral scent of oil, before something touched the little spot of it and began smearing it over his skin. A fingertip, he thought, though he couldn't be sure.

One of the intriguing things about Owen's size was how much of Zevran he could reach; he could be kneeling to Zevran's left, and still easily be touching, teasing, caressing, kissing and tonguing at Zevran's right side. He tried to guess, from shifts of the bed and touches, where Owen was, what position he was in. Sometimes he would guess from a shift where he would be handled next – a subtly reassuring feeling, that he'd guessed the other man's current position correctly – and other times there would be the unsettling feeling of a touch coming unexpectedly, and he'd have to revise his guess as to Owen's position and orientation.

And such rousing touches, such insistent teasing... he was finding it increasingly hard to stay still, muscles beginning to tremor from the strained position of keeping his legs up and apart, from fighting to remain still when fingers or tongue or lips stroked him in particularly enticing ways. He moaned, wanting _more_ than just the teasing touches.

The surface of the bed heaved again, a big move that time, leaving him more disoriented than before. He felt the bed sag beneath his buttocks, the only indication he had of where Owen had moved _to_ , before a mouth closed over him, hot and moist, taking him to the root in one controlled plunge.

He yelped and jerked, startled, and heard and _felt_ Owen make a disapproving growl. He froze again, outright shaking now with the effort of remaining still. Owen stayed motionless for a long moment, mouth and throat warm and close around Zevran's length, until the elf _whimpered_ at the lack of additional sensation. And then the man began to move, slowly raising and lowering his head, lips and tongue working. His hands moved to cup Zevran's buttocks, fingers and thumbs kneading at his flesh. After a moment he lifted his mouth entirely free. "Rest your feet on my shoulders," he said quietly, then resumed what he'd been doing.

Zevran did so, feeling the strain in his thighs and stomach ease now that his legs had some support. He gave himself up to just enjoying the sensation of Owen's mouth on him, hot and demanding, sometimes enveloping just his tip, teasing at it, sometimes taking his whole length deep, throat muscles and tongue fluttering against him. Finally he stiffened, crying out as he came into the mage's mouth, the darkness behind the blindfold and his closed eyelids lighting up with sparks of light.

Cuddling, then, and more stroking, feeling Owen's own erection pressing warm and hard against his thigh as the mage first soothed him and then began to excite him again. Owen was under him now, sitting up against the headboard, Zevran face-up on top of him. One oil-slicked hand closed around his cock and began a steady stroke, while the mage's other hand reached further back, first toying with his balls, then brushing over the soft skin beyond them, finding and brushing in light circles around his puckered entrance. A finger pressed slowly inwards, curving in and forwards to press in just the right spot, making him jerk and hiss, before withdrawing. The finger moved slowly in and out, then was joined by a second. The fingers curved, stilled, pressing just lightly inside him, the thumb on that hand moving to press against the skin between his legs, just behind the base of his balls.

"I'm going to try something new," whispered ticklishly against the shell of his ear, was the only warning he had, then the fingers pressed firmly, and energy surged between them and the thumb. He cried out, in surprise, in shock, curling tightly as every muscle in his body seeming to clench for a moment, the world narrowing to just the exquisite feeling deep in his groin. His back arched sharply, only his buttocks and the top of his head in contact with Owen, then his heels came down and his hips thrust up. His cry changed to a scream of mixed pain and pleasure as he came, seed spurting out of him, hips thrusting convulsively, slamming himself with painful force into the curl of Owen's hand.

He must have blacked out. The next thing he was aware of was being curled up tightly in Owen's arms, the mage running hands soothingly along his skin, making little sounds of reassurance. He was sore and trembling with the aftermath.

"I think..." Owen began, voice uncharacteristically hesitant, almost tremulous. "I think I might want to use rather less power, if I ever do that to you again."

Zevran laughed weakly, and tiredly moved to drape his arms around the man's neck, hugging him tightly. "Yes," he agreed shakily. "That was... _magnificent_... but perhaps a little too intense. I would certainly encourage trying it again some time though," he added thoughtfully.

Owen laughed, then stripped the blindfold off of him, and kissed him warmly. "I think after that little miscalculation we should abandon the rest of my plans for the night and just sleep. Busy day ahead tomorrow anyway," he said regretfully

Zevran nodded, and the two shifted around, cuddling more comfortably together for sleep.

"So... does this mean I still have more reward coming later?" Zevran asked after a few minutes, a hopeful note in his voice.

Owen laughed warmly. Answer enough.


	9. The Landsmeet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're sure you're okay?" Owen asked softly as he deftly braided Zevran's hair.

"You're sure you're okay?" Owen asked softly as he deftly braided Zevran's hair.

"Yes, I am quite fine, I promise you," Zevran reassured the larger man. "No harm was done."

"Good," Owen said, leaning down to kiss the tip of the elf's ear before neatly tying off the end of the braid before releasing it. Zevran quickly drew back his hair, holding it at the nape of his neck, and Owen pulled the two thin braids back over top of it, twisting and knotting them to keep the mass of it back. "All done," he said.

Zevran nodded, and rose to his feet, turning to look curiously at Owen. "Should we do anything with your hair today?" he asked.

Owen shrugged, and rested his hands on the elf's hips. "Like what?"

Zevran reached out, carding his fingers into Owen's mane of long hair. "A ponytail? Perhaps a loose braid?" he suggested, gathering it together behind the man's head, a position which of necessity brought his own face quite close to Owen's. The mage smiled, and leaned forward slightly, enough to kiss him. "A braid of some kind," he agreed, and smiled. "Maybe I'll let you strip it out later," he added.

Zevran laughed softly. "Like you're always doing to mine?" he asked with a grin, and released his grip on Owen's hair, stepping back out of his hold and then moving around to kneel on the bed behind him. "Pass me the comb."

He quickly neatened the mess he'd made of the man's hair, tied it off in a ponytail, then divided it in three and braided it. He moved back in front of the mage, and smiled, reaching out to lightly touch his fingers to the jut of Owen's cheekbone. "You look very different with your hair back. Less... scruffy. Apart from this," he added, flicking fingertips against the bristly growth covering Owen's cheeks and chin.

Owen smiled, amused. "Should I shave?"

Zevran shrugged. "Perhaps just neaten it up somewhat? It is rather... messy."

Owen's lips twisted in an off-centre smile. "You don't like my facial hair?"

"Mmmm, not so much that I don't like it – because I actually rather do – but that you have such a _lot_ of it."

"You're just jealous because you can't grow any," Owen said, grinning, then rose to his feet and picked up his backpack, searching through it for his soap and razor. "How much should I remove?"

"I don't know... the hair on your cheeks, maybe? I rather like the bits around your mouth," Zevran said, reaching up and stroking his finger along the hair along Owen's upper lip. "They tickle so intriguingly when your mouth is on me."

Owen laughed, then leaned down and kissed Zevran. "All right," he said, and stepped over to the washstand, where he started lathering up his lower face. Zevran sat down on the bed and watched interestedly as the tall mage peered into a small hand-mirror from his pack, carefully scraping at his cheeks. After a while he washed away the remains of lather, and patted his skin dry, then turned to look enquiringly at Zevran. "How do I look?"

"Very _sexy_ ," Zevran said approvingly. "I don't know if I should let anyone see how handsomely you clean up. They will all be trying to steal you away from me."

Owen laughed again, put away his things, and walked over to envelope the elf in a warm hug. "They can _try_ ," he said dryly. "I doubt they'll succeed. Come, let's finish dressing and go have breakfast. It's going to be a very _long_ day, I suspect."

"Though probably not boring." Zevran pointed out.

"No, probably not boring," Owen agreed.

* * *

The Landsmeet was indeed anything but boring. Arren's party encountered Loghain's lieutenant, Ser Cauthrien, in the foyer leading to the hall where the Landsmeet was being held. Given her role in Arren and Alistair's capture just days before, it was unsurprising that she wished to prevent their entry to the chamber; what did surprise everyone was that Arren was willing to speak with the woman and try to convince her to give way rather than just cutting her and her men down.

After a couple of minutes of quiet conversation, she turned away, tears in her eyes, and gestured for her men to stand down; she'd seen the dungeons of Arl Howe's estate after capturing the wardens, and been sickened to realize what her commander was apparently condoning. What point in saving Ferelden, as Loghain claimed to be trying to do, if the only way to do so was to ignore what evils Howe was working in his name?

Arren nodded solemnly toward Cauthrien, then led his party into the chamber. Most of them stayed back by the door, only Arren, Alistair, Wynne and Oghren proceeding forward. A nicely selected group, combining as it did representatives of all three races and of the Dalish, the Grey Wardens, the Circle of Magi, and Orzammar.

Loghain challenged Arren's presence at once. Arren calmly answered his accusations with ones of his own, supported by those among the nobles who had been assisted by the ventures of he and his companions since their arrival in Denerim. Anora's entry, siding with the warden's, gave them a decisive edge in the proceedings. Eventually, realizing he would not win politically, Loghain roared out a challenge to decide the matter via single combat; a method rarely used any more, but still acceptable within the Landsmeet.

Arren nodded acceptance, and stood aside, gesturing Alistair forward.

The fight was mercifully brief, ending with Alistair's sword separating Loghain's head from his shoulders. Anora looked devastated, but... her father had given them no other choice.

Things moved quickly after that, Anora confirmed as ruling monarch. Arren, as the de-facto Warden-Commander of Ferelden, was named to lead the battle against the darkspawn, a position more ceremonial than anything else; he had neither the experience nor the inclination to lead large bodies of troops, and actual leadership of the disparate elements of the make-shift army he'd cobbled together since Ostagar would fall to others.

The Landsmeet ended; Anora returned to her usual quarters within the palace, well-guarded by loyal soldiers, and Arren and his companions returned to Arl Eamon's estate.

* * *

It had taken rather less time for events to unfold than everyone had expected; it was still only early afternoon when they arrived back at the estate. Owen went to check on Tria first of all – he'd put sleep on her before they'd all left for the Landsmeet, and didn't want to leave her in that any longer than necessary. She continued sleeping even after he'd removed the spell, but now it was a natural rest, one she could rouse from if nightmares threatened.

There was also a message sent over from the blacksmith's shop, that Wade had finished making the armour for Owen and they could pick it up any time.

"We might as well get that done now," Arren said, and he, Alistair, Owen and Zevran headed out and across the market, Mouse and Briar trailing along.

The armour was beautifully made, and while Wade decried it as a poor sample of what he could have done given more time and better materials, Owen for one was well-pleased with the end result. He didn't particularly care for the colour – the tanning method Wade had used had turned the originally green-brown drakehide a pinkish-red instead – but that could easily be remedied with some dye when he had time. The fit was excellent, and when he experimentally swung his sword around, nothing seemed to bind or chafe.

"Wear it for a while and come back if there's anything that needs adjustment," Wade advised him once he'd tried it on in the shop.

Owen nodded, and once Arren had paid the remainder of what was owing on the armour to Herren, they went back outside. They were standing in the market, discussing what to do next – return to the estate, or go to the Gnawed Noble for drinks and a mid-afternoon snack – when an urchin ran up with a message for Arren. The Dalish warrior tossed the child a couple of coppers, then unfolded and read the message.

"Bann Teagan asks us to see him at his estate," he said, and slipped the paper into his belt pouch. "Might as well go find out why."

He led the way, off into the warren of side-streets leading away from the marketplace.

* * *

 **Owen's makeover can be seen in a screenshot that can be found by using 3zsmavv as a tinyURL (also linked in my profile). Upper two shots are the "before", lower left, is after braiding, and lower right is once he's also shaved. He'll be keeping that look, as Zevran 9and I!) highly approve of the change.**


	10. Always A Catch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zevran would normally not have allowed himself to become distracted while out in a public space like this, but he had to admit that the sight of his mage in tight-fitting leather clothing was... quite intriguing. He was a striking man even in his normal clothing, but with his hair back, his chin neatly barbered, and dressed in leathers that showed off his increasingly impressive physique instead of obscuring it... now he _looked_ as powerful as Zevran knew him to be, and Zevran had always had a weakness for powerful men.

Zevran would normally not have allowed himself to become distracted while out in a public space like this, but he had to admit that the sight of his mage in tight-fitting leather clothing was... quite intriguing. He was a striking man even in his normal clothing, but with his hair back, his chin neatly barbered, and dressed in leathers that showed off his increasingly impressive physique instead of obscuring it... now he _looked_ as powerful as Zevran knew him to be, and Zevran had always had a weakness for powerful men.

He wished they were going straight back to the estate, rather than off to visit Bann Teagan, as he very much wished to peel Owen out of his leathers and express to him just how delightful he found the new outfit. Or even leave him in them and peel off just enough to access the important bits...

Lost in lascivious thoughts as he was, by the time he realized they were being herded, their path subtly diverted down specific laneways, they'd already gone too far.

"Stop!" he hissed, looking around at the strangely-empty courtyard they'd been crossing. "This is a trap," he stated flatly.

An all-too-familiar laugh sounded from nearby, and Taliesin rose from where he'd been sitting, waiting, on a crate near the top of a flight of stairs leading up out of the courtyard to the next higher terrace of the hillside. "Ah, Zevran, such a pleasure to see you again. It has been far too long, my friend."

"So they sent you, Taliesin? Or did you volunteer for the job?" Zevran asked, eyes narrowing as he watched the man, posed at the top of the stairway, standing in a spot where he was brightly highlighted by a fall of late afternoon sunlight from between the buildings behind them, the bright light making the contrast of his tanned skin and black hair and leathers all the more effective. Taliesin had always had a flair for the dramatic.

* * *

Owen looked sharply at the rogue posed above them. So this was the Taliesin of whom Zevran had spoken; the man who had betrayed and so badly damaged Zevran, back in Antiva. His eyes narrowed, and his hand shifted to rest on the hilt of his sword. He glanced over at Arren and Alistair. Alistair was also focused on the man; Arren, on the other hand, was slowly turning his head, looking at something else; focusing on areas of shadow nearby, on the rooftops and windows overlooking the courtyard. More than just the one assassin in wait for them, then. Owen met his eyes, briefly, gave him a very slight nod, before returning his attention to Zevran and Taliesin, ready to move at a word.

"I volunteered, of course," Taliesin was saying. "When I heard that the _great Zevran_ had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself. You know, I was quite devastated when you left Antiva. And without even a word to me before you... vanished. A lesser man might be hurt enough to be unforgiving, that you fled my bed so... _precipitously_... after having only just returned to it. Were you disappointed because I had a cock and not a cunt, like that whore Rinna? You always enjoyed it before."

"Do not speak of her... friend," Zevran said, voice very soft, the intonation he gave to 'friend' making it clear he did not mean the word in any kindly way. "Because we were once... what we were... if you turn now and walk away, I will not kill you."

Taliesin laughed. "Ah, such fine threats! No, Zevran. That is not one of the choices available to you here. You may walk away from these... gentlemen... and rejoin me, and return to Antiva. All will be forgiven. The Masters understand that... mistakes were made. They are willing to be lenient."

"There is a catch," Owen said quietly, looking at the man, evaluating how he held himself, how he moved. A dangerous man; self-assured, and judging by what little Zevran had told him of him, one who was rightfully confident of his abilities. "There is always a catch."

Taliesin nodded approvingly to Owen. "Of course. The catch is that Zevran must prove his good will by fulfilling the contract he was sent here on," he said, and turned his gaze to where Arren and Alistair stood, hands on weapons, listening to the two assassins conversing. "There they stand, Zevran. We have only to kill them, and you are free to come home."

"And if I am not willing to kill my friends in order to return to your side, my dear Taliesin? What then?" Zevran asked, voice light, empty of anything but casual curiosity.

Taliesin grinned widely, shrugged. "Then you will still return to Antiva with me, but it will be as a prisoner, and once we arrive, an example will be made of you, your ending a nightmarish tale that will keep young Crows in line for at least a hundred years. You will be wishing for death for a very long time before it is finally granted you."

Zevran nodded, face impassive. "I see. You leave me little choice then."

Taliesin nodded, and grinned. He seemed certain he knew which choice Zevran would take.

Zevran turned and looked at Arren. "I am sorry, my Warden," he said, and shrugged. "We will have to kill them all."

Taliesin's face darkened. "That is not one of your choices," he said flatly, and signalled with one hand. Crows stepped out of the shadows, emerged from hiding behind crates, bushes, in doorways, rose from behind dormers and chimneys on roofs. "Reconsider, Zevran," Taliesin said, harshly. "It is not yet too late."

Zevran shook his head. "You are going to lose, Taliesin. You are going to lose badly. You should have stayed in Antiva," he said, voice calm and utterly certain.

Taliesin scowled, signalled again, and the Crows exploded into motion, closing in on the four men and two dogs.

And just as explosively scattered back, as the force of Owen's magic blasted out, pushing them away.

Taliesin might have thought the force he'd arranged was more than sufficient to deal with four men and two dogs, taken by surprise. And it might have been, had he not allowed them time to prepare themselves for attack. Or had he known that one dog and one man were both mages, or that mabari warhounds were much more effective warriors than any Antivan dog would be.

It was still a fierce fight, but Arren and his companions were all superlative fighters, the co-ordination between them well-honed by their travels together, and unfavourable odds was what they were most used to fighting against. Owen saw the beginnings of doubt in Taliesin's face near the end of the fight, as he saw how many of his Crows were already down and dead, the two wardens seemingly untouched, Zevran cutting his way through a group of lesser Crows toward him.

He did not turn and flee; Owen had to give him that, as he followed on Zevran's heels, guarding the slighter man's back as they moved closer to the ebon-haired assassin.

The last Crows fell; only Taliesin still stood. He looked at Arren and Alistair advancing toward him, at Owen looming behind Zevran, then faced Zevran again. "Perhaps I should have stayed in Antiva after all," he said, feigning calm. "You've clearly found quite impressive protectors, my friend. Do you fuck them each in turn, or all at once?" he sneered.

Zevran shook his head, almost sorrowfully, and then slit his throat. Taliesin blinked, once, then slowly dropped down to his knees on the cobblestoned street, not crying out or struggling as his life drained out of him, air bubbling out of his ruined throat as he slumped face-down onto the stones, a final shudder passing through him before he lay motionless in death.

Only then did Zevran start shaking, his bloodied dagger falling from suddenly nerveless fingers to bounce off the cobbles at his feet, staring down at Taliesin's corpse. "He _let_ me do that," he said, voice husky. "He could have kept fighting, or even fled. But he _let_ me kill him, at the end." He blinked, turning away from the corpse to look up at Owen. "Why did he do that?" he asked, sounding lost and afraid.

Owen shook his head. "I don't know," he said, then went down on one knee, ignoring the gore coating the cobblestones, to put himself at a better height for hugging Zevran. "It's over," he told him, softly. "He can never hurt you again."

Zevran nodded, and just leaned against him, shaking still, not putting his own arms around Owen, but still accepting what comfort the mage could give him.

Arren looked around uneasily. "We should get out of here," he said softly. "I hope that was all the Crows we'll have to worry about for some time to come, but I don't like being on ground they led us to."

Zevran nodded after a minute, looked around. "You are wise to be wary. There are undoubtedly traps still around, and some of them may be nastily lethal. Many of the Crows will have nasty things concealed on their persons, as well. We should go, quickly and quietly, and send word to your friend Sergeant Kylon that this area will need a careful cleansing."

Arren nodded. "Lead us out of this mess, Zevran," he said. "I trust your eye for traps more than I trust my own, here in the city."

Zevran picked his way carefully away from the carnage, the other following him carefully.

"All right," Arren said once they were clear of it. "Back to the market. We'll find Sergeant Kylon first."

"Send word to Bann Teagan," Zevran suggested. "I suspect that the note that you received was not from him, but merely used to lure us into their trap."

Arren nodded, and scribbled a note of his own, sending it off with a runner as soon as they drew close enough to the market for him to find one. By the time they'd located Sergeant Kylon, and discretely informed him of the slaughter in the distant courtyard, and why it would need careful handling to safely remove and dispose of the bodies, the runner returned, with a note from Bann Teagan, this one sealed with a daub of wax impressed with the Bann's signet. Arren read it, then nodded at Zevran. "Good call. He said he sent us no such note, and is taking advantage of his response to our enquiry to invite us all to his townhouse for lunch tomorrow," Arren said, amused. "Assuming we intend to remain in the city, and not just head right out again."

"I'm for staying a few days," Alistair spoke up. "We've not had a real rest since before coming to Denerim, what with all the running around the Arl and Queen have had us doing."

"Seconded," Owen said quietly, meeting Arren's eyes then glancing pointedly at Zevran, who was still looking pale and shaken after their encounter with the Crows.

Arren nodded. "Right. That sounds like a plan to me. All right, let's get back to the estate; it's almost time for dinner."

It was a quiet dinner; Arl Eamon was dining at the castle with the Queen and many of the other nobles, so Arren's group had the Arl's dining room to themselves, and had a pleasantly convivial dinner with all of them seated at one table together. Zevran was very quiet during the meal, but apart from that seemed almost his normal self.

"If we're going to stay in the city for a while before moving on again, we should probably consider finding lodgings of our own, rather than imposing on the Arl's hospitality any further," Arren said quietly as they were finishing their meals. "We're a sizable group, and while he's been quite generous with his hospitality while we were of use to him, I'd rather not outstay our welcome with him, especially when we've disappointed some of his plans."

"Not making me King, you mean?" Alistair asked, looking up from feeding Briar a choice tidbit of roast.

"Among other things, yes," Arren agreed, smiling warmly at the other warden. "It's going to take the nobles some time to sort out the mess left in the wake of the deaths of both Teryn Loghain and Arl Howe. I think we can safely expect that we'll be staying on in the city for at least another week, possibly two, before things begin to move. Tomorrow we can begin looking around for an inn or boarding house able to take us all on for at least a week."

After the meal they retired to their quarters. Owen checked in on Tria again; awake, and being fed by Mara. She didn't speak, but frowned thoughtfully at Owen, recognizing him again he thought, before Mara distracted her with another spoonful of stew. It was going to take a while to restore her to real health, but at least she was clean, free of parasites, and getting proper food and rest now; her body should recover soon enough. He just hoped her mind would follow.

He returned to his room to find Zevran sitting on the edge of the bed, staring off into space, still wearing the same armour he'd had on earlier. He'd pulled himself together after killing Taliesin, managed to seem normal enough through the course of the meal... but Owen was not surprised to find him distraught now he had the privacy to be so. The assassin didn't even seem to notice him until he knelt down before him, putting his hands on his shoulders.

"Owen," the elf said, acknowledging his presence, but nothing more.

Owen gently touched his face. "Zevran..." he began, then broke off. He leaned forward, and kissed the assassin gently on the forehead. "Come, you need a bath. We both do."

Zevran nodded, and stood up, following Owen docilely to their bathing chamber. Owen drew a bath, stripping off his own new armour and his rather mussed clothing underneath – he'd have to get a proper gambeson to wear under it – then stripped down Zevran as well, who'd made no move to undress himself.

Their bath was quiet, with no play, just Owen washing himself and Zevran, the elf seeming listless in the wake of the day's events. It was only later, when they were both dried and dressed, curled up in bed together, that Zevran finally seemed to become aware of his surroundings again. His arms stole around Owen's neck, and he pressed his face into the larger man's shoulder, silent tears soaking into Owen's nightshirt.

"I hated him so much," he whispered.

Owen nodded.

"And loved him so much," he added, the words barely voiced at all.

"I know," Owen said softly, and hugged him close, while the assassin finally let out the pain he'd been holding in since Taliesin had stepped into their path earlier that day.


	11. Leathers and Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zevran seemed much more his usual self the next morning, apart from a certain quietness of manner. He and Owen spent the time after breakfast packing away the few of their belongings that were scattered about the room; if Arren did find a place for them to move to, it would be that much less work later.

Zevran seemed much more his usual self the next morning, apart from a certain quietness of manner. He and Owen spent the time after breakfast packing away the few of their belongings that were scattered about the room; if Arren did find a place for them to move to, it would be that much less work later.

Owen wore his new armour again, getting used to the leathers, and by mid-morning had decided he needed to speak to Wade about a few ideas of his own for improvements. He and Zevran bumped into Arren in the hallway, and when he heard where they were going, he decided to accompany them as well.

Herren was less than thrilled to see them re-enter the shop, but his ruffled feathers were smoothed somewhat when Arren made a couple of minor purchases – replacement straps, a new gambeson for Alistair, who seemed to have a talent for wearing out anything made of cloth in astonishingly short time – while Owen and Wade put their heads together and discussed Owen's armour in detail.

After a while Wade shook his head regretfully. "It might be possible, but not in drakehide. First, there's only enough of the drakehide left to make a set of armour for a much smaller man than yourself, and it's already been tanned. There _is_ a process the dwarves used to use on dragonhide, which includes lyrium in the pickling stage, that might have the sort of properties you're interested in, but..." Wade shrugged and sighed. "I'd need some raw dragonhide to work with first. And who has any of _that_ in this day and age."

Owen and Arren exchanged a look. Arren sighed. "Fine, you can have it," he told the mage. "I'll be right back."

"You have dragonhide?" Wade asked excitedly.

"Oh, no – no more custom work, _please!_ " Herren groaned. He grew even more incensed when Wade refused to allow Owen and Arren to pay anything for his work on the dragonhide set – apparently he considered it a privilege to work with such a rare material.

It was only after agreeing to pay extra gold to have Wade also make a set of leathers out of the remaining drakehide – sized for Zevran – that Herren grudgingly agreed to accept the commission for Wade to make yet another set of armour for Owen.

"That's fine, I can make the drakehide set while the dragonhide is being tanned," Wade enthused, hands stroking lovingly over the heavy folds of scaley skin. "Anything in particular I should include in the smaller set?"

That set off a long conversation between Zevran and himself about hidden pockets and concealed sheaths and suchlike. Wade seem delighted by Zevran's requests, and had several creative suggestions of his own to make. Zevran was grinning happily and Herren looking dire again by the time they finally left the shop. "The man is definitely a master of his trade," the assassin said warmly. "The leathers he is making for me shall be _magnífico_ when completed. And we shall match," he told Owen, grinning in amusement.

"Assuming the dragonhide comes out this same hideous pink, yes," Owen agreed. "I really need to do something about the colour. Though I might as well wait until I have the dragonhide set."

"We'd better round up the others and head over to Bann Teagan's house," Arren said, glancing at the angle of the sun. "It can't be very long until lunch now."

* * *

Mara and Wynne had Tria on her feet and dressed in a clean outfit – clothing of Zevran's or Jowan's, Owen thought, judging by the size and style – and were determined to bring her along rather than leaving her sleeping alone again. Owen reluctantly agreed; he just hoped she wouldn't be too badly frightened by being exposed to such a large swarm of people in unfamiliar surroundings. She seemed quite nervous at first, but as the members of Arren's party cheerfully assembled in the front hall for the walk across town, and treated her with nothing worse than interested kindness, she slowly seemed to relax a little.

She stayed close to the few of them she knew well – Owen, Mara and Wynne – but looked about at the others with a level of curiosity that Owen was heartened to see. She was at least paying some attention to the world around her now, which gave him hope that she might indeed recover, given time. The walk across town scared her a little, but Mara kept a hold of her hand and talked away at her, the rest of their party staying between her and anyone else they passed by, and she never quite panicked.

Bann Teagan was delighted by their arrival at his townhouse, and greeted everyone by name. To Owen's relief the man saw Tria's flustered state and kept his distance when greeting her after being told the name of Arren's newest companion. He led the way to his dining room, a considerably smaller chamber than his brother's dining hall; fitting all eleven of Arren's party in, as well as Teagan and his two houseguests, was a tight squeeze.

"I suppose I'd better perform introductions," Teagan said, smiling happily as he looked around the crowded table, seated at one end of it with Gemma on his right and Morrigan to his left.. He introduced Gemma and Fergus to Arren's group first of all, then worked his way clockwise around the table, introducing everyone else to them. "This is Morrigan, and the Grey Warden Arren, whom the two of you have previously met and the leader of this rather sizable group of people. Wynne, a mage from the Circle Tower, Oghren, a warrior from Orzammar, Zevran, and... Tria, wasn't it? Owen, Mara – another mage – Sten the qunari, and Jowan and Alistair, whom you met the other day."

Gemma and Fergus seemed pleased at the chance to meet more of Arren's group, and Teagan, Fergus, Arren and Alistair were soon involved in a spirited discussion of events around and just after the disaster at Ostagar, each of them comparing their separate viewpoints of what had happened. Down at Owen's end of the table things were considerably quieter, with Mara and Sten quietly talking together, while Owen and Zevran kept an eye on Tria and Owen attempted to draw her into conversation. She ate well, and occasionally made mono-syllabic responses to his questions, but mainly just sat quietly, watching everyone else nervously.

After lunch they all moved to Teagan's sitting room. Mara drew Tria off to one side, joined by Wynne and Morrigan, the three mages talking quietly while keeping the elven woman company. It was a surprisingly relaxed gathering, given what a wide and disparate cross-section of people and races they represented.

Gemma was sitting ensconced on a long couch between Teagan and her brother, looking considerably better than she had the night they'd first encountered her. She'd been right that there was little to be done for her leg; it had been badly broken, then poorly set, and the bones had healed crookedly; she would have a bad limp for the rest of her life, a sorry fate for a woman who'd apparently been a gifted warrior before her injury. Her ribs and arm were healing well though, and Owen was reasonably certain that these more recent injuries wouldn't have any lasting ill-effect.

Zevran came over and perched on the arm of the chair Owen was occupying. He had a glass of brandy in hand and looked a little tired; Owen guessed he'd slept poorly the night before. "I think our good friend has a romantic attachment," Zevran said quietly, with a pleased smile.

"Who? Bann Teagan?" Owen asked, and watched the man for a moment.

"Yes. Look at the way he smiles every time he looks at Gemma. I do believe the Bann has been swept off his feet by a younger woman," Zevran said, and sipped at his brandy. "I wonder how the good lady feels about him?"

Owen watched them for a moment, then looked curiously at Zevran. "Why the interest?"

Zevran shrugged, and smiled. "I quite like the man; one of very few noblemen I have ever met whom I am pleased to be able to call a friend. He and I had a long talk one night, over brandy, about our separate futures. He told me of how he must once again enter the lists of love, when he would prefer a life of quiet bachelorhood, now that he is his brother's heir again."

Owen frowned. "Eamon could always remarry and father more children."

Zevran shrugged again. "It is apparently unlikely – the man loved his wife very much, and has no wish to marry another. So since Connor cannot inherit, it will fall to Teagan and his get, or to more distant cousins."

Owen grunted, and looked across the room at the pair. "They would make a striking couple," he said after a moment.

"And potentially quite a powerful one; he may be only a Bann of a minor holding right now, but he stands to inherit a quite large Arling if his brother pre-deceases him, or is given other responsibilities by the Queen. Arl Eamon apparently has hopes of becoming her Chancellor, the same position he'd planned to hold if he'd succeeded in seeing Alistair crowned king. I have heard a rumour he is also pushing to be named Arl of Denerim if such comes to pass. And until and unless Fergus remarries and produces new heirs of his own as well, Gemma is the heir to the Highever Terynir."

Owen turned to look at Zevran curiously. "You seem very well-informed about local politics."

Zevran grinned. "I am a _Crow_. In Antiva we _are_ politics. We have been in this city more than long enough – and most especially in the Arl's very household – for me to have some idea of the direction of local dealings. My personal opinion, however, is that the Arl will be disappointed in at least one and possibly both of his ambitions; he had some sway with the Queen prior to the Landsmeet, but she is well-aware that he was initially supporting her overthrow, and I doubt she trusts him. Whether or not she is intelligent enough to append 'out of her sight' to that statement has yet to be seen, of course," Zevran said, and smirked slightly before sipping at his brandy.

Owen laughed. "A good point. What's that saying about friends and enemies?"

"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?"

"That's the one," Owen agreed, then nodded at where Arren was in intent conversation with Fergus Cousland. "Arren seems to have made a friend, there."

Zevran nodded. "Fergus is well-disposed to the wardens, I think, and appreciates what an enormous task Arren and Alistair have performed since Ostagar in the course of rebuilding an army to combat the Blight. I rather like the man; his is like our Alistair, stiff with duty and honour. But nowhere near as shy – quite an earthy sense of humour, if anything."

Owen laughed.

It turned out there'd been a very useful outcome from Arren's conversation with Fergus, as he informed his group on the way back to Arl's estate. Queen Anora had already restored the Cousland's Denerim properties to Fergus and Gemma, and when he'd heard Arren's group was seeking somewhere to stay other than the Arl's estate, he'd offered Arren the use of the smaller of the Cousland holdings here. It was a sizable townhouse a couple of streets over from Bann Teagan's residence, in poor shape after having been stripped of valuables by Rendon Howe and used to quarter some of his men, but theirs to use for whatever time they remained in Denerim before setting off again.


	12. A Piece of Jewellery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Owen settled back on his heels for a moment, admiring Zevran. The elf was naked, blindfolded again, gagged this time as well, on his hands and knees on the bed before Owen. Owen poured a bit more oil out into his hand, slicking it over his own erect cock, then moved forward, positioning himself between Zevran's thighs, his weight just lightly pressed again the elf's rear.

Owen settled back on his heels for a moment, admiring Zevran. The elf was naked, blindfolded again, gagged this time as well, on his hands and knees on the bed before Owen. Owen poured a bit more oil out into his hand, slicking it over his own erect cock, then moved forward, positioning himself between Zevran's thighs, his weight just lightly pressed again the elf's rear.

"Close your legs," he ordered hoarsely. Zevran carefully shifted his position, first one leg, then the other, closing his legs tightly together, trapping Owen's erection between his well-oiled thighs. Owen shifted his own weight a little, drawing back then pressing forward again. "A little looser," he instructed, Zevran promptly edging his knees just a fraction further apart. He tried again, made an approving grunt, then lowered himself further down so he was on his hands and knees as well, his chest brushing lightly against Zevran's back. He kissed along the elf's shoulders and the back of his neck for a moment, before he slowly began to thrust back and forth.

Every forward stroke won a grunt or groan of pleasure from Zevran, as Owen's weight brushed against the plug in the elf's rear, shifting its position within him, the end of his cock brushing against Zevran's balls. Sliding back and forth between the elf's thighs was almost as good as being within him, and the muffled sounds of pleasure he was making were going right to Owen's cock. He picked up his pace, enjoying that he didn't have to be as careful, that he didn't have to worry about hurting Zevran, taking him this way. In him was good – it was usually damned _exquisite_ – but this was almost as enjoyable.

He shifted his weight to one hand, lifting the other to grasp and stroke Zevran's erection as he felt his own orgasm approaching. Zevran groaned around the gag in his mouth, his own hips beginning to rock as he thrust against Owen's hand. The change in motion had Owen swearing and gasping in appreciation.

He'd timed things well; Zevran spilled into his hand only a moment before his own seed spurted out as well, the two of them falling together to one side in the aftershocks, still locked together. Owen groaned and rolled over on his back after a minute. "Clean us up," he ordered.

Zevran nodded, sitting up and stripping off first the blindfold, then the gag, making a face and working his jaw for a moment before darting a pleased smile at Owen. He picked up a cloth and wiped them both clean, dabbing up the spill from the sheets as well, then set to cleaning the oil off of both of them. Owen smiled, watching him. "Come here," he said softly, lifting one arm invitingly. The elf grinned, and moved closer. Owen wrapped his arms around him, drawing him in for a hug, and kissing him several times on the cheeks and jaw, before licking at one ear.

"That was magnificent," Owen proclaimed. "Let's do that one a lot more."

Zevran laughed softly. "You will have no objections from _me_ ," he said, and pulled himself up on top of Owen, sprawling out on top of him. Owen smiled, and nuzzled at his face and hair for a moment. One of the things he did like about their size difference was that he could have Zevran draped over him without it being too uncomfortable; he loved after-sex cuddling, and it was something he'd only very rarely been able to indulge in back in the tower. Feeling his lover in such intimate contact with him, his weight on him, being able to touch and stroke him or merely hold him close... he loved this.

One drifting hand cupped Zevran's buttocks for a moment, then he frowned, tapping his finger against the button-end of the plug. "Forgetting something?"

"Mmmm, no, I want to leave it there for now," Zevran said sleepily. "It feels good."

Owen snorted. "Hedonist."

"Of course," Zevran said, and pressed a kiss against the side of Owen's neck before sighing deeply, relaxing towards sleep already. Owen smiled as he closed his own eyes.

* * *

He woke in the morning to find Zevran had had an ulterior motive behind retaining the plug. He found Zevran lying face-down beside him, panting and flushed. "What's wrong?" he asked, worried.

Zevran turned his head, and smiled at him. "Nothing is wrong. I woke early, and changed to the third plug."

"You... _what!_ " Owen exclaimed, honestly shocked. Shocked, and more than a little aroused by the thought.

Zevran laughed softly, then moaned slightly as the laughter made his muscles clench around the plug. "I want you, in me," he said hoarsely. " _Please_."

Owen swallowed heavily, his cock hardening at Zevran's words. "I think that's damn near the sexiest thing you've ever said to me," he growled, and leaned over to kiss the elf's face, stroking one hand gently down his trembling back, feeling how heated his skin was. "Maker, Zevran... how long have you been waiting for me to wake up?"

Zevran smiled, just a little shakily. "Long enough."

Owen shook his head. "Idiot," he said softly. "You could have woken me." Then he leaned closer and asked, whispering the words against Zevran's ear, "How do you want me?"

Zevran groaned. His body jerked and shuddered under Owen's hand as he came into the sheets underneath him. "Well... at least I will last some little time once you are in me," he rasped out, an edge of amusement in his voice. He closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for his breathing to steady, before answering. "Sitting up against the headboard, please, with your knees raised together."

Owen nodded, and silently moved into the position Zevran had requested. He picked up the container of oil still sitting on the end table from the night before and quickly slicked himself, stroking himself enough to bring himself fully erect. "Ready," he said softly.

Zevran slowly raised himself onto hands and knees, sweat breaking out on his forehead, before reaching back and carefully removing the oversized plug and putting it aside. He quickly moved to straddle Owen, facing him. He let his hands rest on Owen's chest, biting apprehensively at his lower lip for a moment.

Owen reached down between them, carefully guiding himself into contact with the elf's still-distended entrance. Zevran carefully began to lower himself. He eased down over Owen's tip, hot and tight, groaning once as the broadest part of Owen's cock finally slipped past the ring of muscle, eyes fluttering shut and brow wrinkling slightly in concentration, as he carefully lowered himself a little more. Down further, and further, his breath going short and laboured, more and more of Owen disappearing into him. Owen's own breathing had gone to hoarse panting. He grasped Zevran's hips lightly, fingers flexing as the elf's slow sinking movements sent little spikes of pleasure shivering through him. By the time the assassin finally stopped, having taken in as much of the larger man as he comfortably could, Zevran was fully erect again as well.

Owen moved his hands to cup the elf's face, stoking one thumb against his parted lips, before leaning forward enough to kiss him. "I love you," he said, shakily.

Zevran nodded. "I know," he said hoarsely, eyes opening momentarily to look back at the man. He drew his head back slightly, backing out of Owen's hold, then he lowered his head, pressing his forehead against Owen's collarbone, his eyelashes tickling against the man's chest as his eyes fluttered closed again. He began to raise his hips again, faster than he'd lowered himself. "I... feeling you in me, like this..." he gasped out between panting breaths as he raised and lowered himself, moving slowly and carefully. "This is when... when I feel... like _I am yours_ ," he gasped, then cried out in wordless pleasure as Owen jerked at his words, thrusting up into him.

"Zevran...!" Owen choked out, half-frightened that his sudden move had hurt the much smaller man, half overwhelmed by Zevran's words, the closest to an outright declaration the elf had yet come.

Zevran raised his head again, smiled at Owen. "So good," he rasped, and leaned forward, kissing hungrily at Owen, raising and lowering himself at an increased pace. Owen plundered his mouth, swallowing Zevran's cries of pleasure as he pumped himself up and down, more vigorously than Owen would have dared to. Owen came with a shout, was still shuddering with the aftershocks when Zevran keened and arched backwards, muscles tightening almost painfully around Owen's erection as he, too, went over the edge, before collapsing bonelessly on top of Owen, unconscious.

Owen gently separated them, cleaning first Zevran and then himself, channelling healing magic into the elf to be sure they'd done no damage. He lay there a while, just holding the elf close, until Zevran finally stirred and re-awoke, smiling at Owen with a look at sated self-satisfaction. Owen smiled tenderly at him, leaning down to dust light kisses over the elf's upturned face. "Madman."

" _Your_ madman," Zevran pointed out, a trifle smugly. "I surrendered to you, remember?"

Owen snorted, then rolled away and sat up, glancing back over his shoulder at Zevran. "Rest a while. I'll draw a bath for us; it might be our last really good one for a while. Maker only knows what state the Cousland townhouse is in after being occupied by Howe's men."

Zevran nodded, snuggling back into the sheets with a smile.

When Owen came back out a few minutes later to fetch their soaps and things, he was mildly exasperated to find Zevran already up out of bed, crouched by their backpacks. "That's not resting," he pointed out.

Zevran turned and rose, smiling as he flipped his loose hair back out of his eyes. "I have something I want to give you," he said. "A souvenir I picked up on my first mission for the Crows. It was too pretty to leave behind, and... well, I suppose I consider it a good-luck piece, I have always kept it close. I... want you to have it," he said, almost shyly, holding out his hand and opening it to display a large earring.

It was some silver-coloured metal, though not silver itself, judging by the lack of tarnish. Platinum, perhaps. It had a single large faceted stone hanging from it, as long and thick as the last two joints of Zevran's littlest finger, shading from a rich blue at one end to a deep green at the other – tourmaline of some kind, Owen thought. He smiled at the elf. "Is this a token of affection, then?" he asked. "You don't need to give me anything – you already gave me the one thing I most wanted."

"I may not need to, but I _want_ to," the elf responded, before glancing uneasily away. "Don't get the wrong idea about it. It's just a piece of jewellery. I thought it would look well on you. Feel free to sell it, or wear it... or whatever you'd like."

Owen frowned. "I'm... not sure I can accept it," he said softly.

Zevran's face fell. "I... look, just... just take it," he said, an edge of desperation in his voice. "It's meant a lot to me, but so have... so has what you've done. Please, take it."

Owen's face set. "No, Zevran," he said softly.

A look of devastation appeared on the elf's face, his head lowered, hand closing around the ring as he began to turn away, shoulders hunching. Owen reached out and caught Zevran's arm, turning him back around. He gently picked up the hand in which Zevran was still holding the earring, cupped it in his, reaching out with his other hand to turn Zevran's chin, make the assassin look up at him and meet his eyes. "It's more than just a piece of jewellery," he said quietly, rubbing his thumb gently along Zevran's cheekbone. "When you're ready to admit that, I'll be ready to accept it. All right?"

Zevran blinked, eyes looking suspiciously moist for a moment as a look of relief crossed his face. He drew a deep breath, his hand tightening around the earring. "You are a very frustrating man to deal with, do you know that?" he said acidly.

Owen grinned. "Of course. You like me that way. Just like I like someone who surrenders, and then still insists on getting his own way sometimes," he said. "Come on, the tub should be full by now," he said, releasing the elf and stepping back.

Zevran nodded, and put the earring back in his pack, rising to his feet with his soap and a change of clothes. "Owen..."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Owen nodded, and leaned down to kiss him before leading the way to the bathing room. However long it took until Zevran was ready – he could wait.


End file.
